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PR4U33 

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1897 

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DATE  RFT 

DUE  RET* 

DATE  RFT 

DUE  Ktl' 

Farm  No.  513 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 


YOL.  II. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/thomascarlylehis22frou 


jfycm  a.  mzTiiafur#  m 


'sepTa/z.  . 


THOMAS  0  A  li  L  Y  L  E 


The  First  Forty 

A  HISTORY  OF  SJS  LIFE  IN  LONDON 

Years  of  H 1 5  L i fe  ^ _ 

t&34- 1 88 1 

/  ^  7 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE,  M.A. 

HONORARY  FELLOW  OF  EXETER  COLLEGE,  OXFORD 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 

VOL.  II. 


WITH  PORTRAITS  ENGRA  VED  ON  STEEL 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 

1897 


[A  1 1  rig  Jits  reserved ] 


?oQ  &  £ 


LIFE  OF 


THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A.D.  1828.  JET.  33. 

Goethe  had  said  of  Carlyle  that  he  was  fortunate  in  hav¬ 
ing  in  himself  an  originating  principle  of  conviction,  out 
of  which  he  could  develop  the  force  that  lay  in  him  un¬ 
assisted  by  other  men.  Goethe  had  discerned  what  had 
not  yet  become  articulately  clear  to  Carlyle  himself.  But 
it  is  no  less  true  that  this  principle  of  conviction  was  al¬ 
ready  active  in  his  mind,  underlying  his  thoughts  on  every 
subj  ect  which  he  touched.  It  is  implied  everywhere,  though 
nowhere  definitely  stated  in  his  published  writings.  We 
have  arrived  at  a  period  when  he  had  become  master  of 
his  powers,  when  he  began  distinctly  to  utter  the  ‘poor 
message,’  as  he  sometimes  called  it,  which  he  had  to  deliver 
to  his  contemporaries.  From  this  time  his  opinions  on  de¬ 
tails  might  vary,  but  the  main  structure  of  his  philosophy 
remained  unchanged.  It  is  desirable,  therefore,  before 
pursuing  further  the  story  of  his  life,  to  describe  briefly 
what  the  originating  principle  was.  The  secret  of  a  man’s 
nature  lies  in  his  religion,  in  what  he  really  believes  about 
this  world,  and  his  own  place  in  it.  What  was  Carlyle’s 
religion  ?  I  am  able  to  explain  it,  partly  from  his  conver¬ 
sations  with  myself,  but  happily  not  from  this  source  only, 

VOL.  II.— 1 


2 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

into  which  alien  opinions  might  too  probably  intrude. 
There  remain  among  his  unpublished  papers  the  frag¬ 
ments  of  two  unfinished  essays  which  he  was  never  able 
to  complete  satisfactorily  to  himself,  but  which  he  told  me 
were,  and  had  been,  an  imperfect  expression  of  his  actual 
thoughts. 

We  have  seen  him  confessing  to  Irving  that  he  did  not 
believe,  as  his  friend  did,  in  the  Christian  religion,  and 
that  it  was  vain  to  hope  that  he  ever  would  so  believe. 
He  tells  his  mother,  and  he  so  continued  to  tell  her  as 
long  as  she  lived,  that  their  belief  was  essentially  the  same, 
although  their  language  was  different.  Both  these  state¬ 
ments  were  true.  He  was  a  Calvinist  without  the  theol¬ 
ogy.  The  materialistic  theory  of  things — that  intellect 
is  a  phenomenon  of  matter,  that  conscience  is  the  growth 
of  social  convenience,  and  other  kindred  speculations,  he 
utterly  repudiated.  Scepticism  on  the  nature  of  right  and 
wrong,  as  on  man’s  responsibility  to  his  <  Maker,  never 
touched  or  tempted  him.  On  the  broad  facts  of  the  Di¬ 
vine  government  of  the  universe  he  was  as  well  assured  as 
Calvin  himself ;  but  he  based  his  faith,  not  on  a  supposed 
revelation,  or  on  fallible  human  authority.  He  had  sought 
the  evidence  for  it,  where  the  foundations  lie  of  all  other 
forms  of  knowledge,  in  the  experienced  facts  of  things  in¬ 
terpreted  by  the  intelligence  of  man.  Experienced  fact 
wTas  to  him  revelation,  and  the  only  true  revelation.  His¬ 
torical  religions,  Christianity  included,  he  believed  to  have 
been  successive  efforts  of  humanity,  loyally  and  nobly 
made  in  the  light  of  existing  knowledge,  to  explain  human 
duty,  and  to  insist  on  the  fulfilment  of  it;  and  the  read¬ 
ing  of  the  moral  constitution  and  position  of  man,  in  the 
creed,  for  instance,  of  his  own  family,  he  believed  to  be 
truer  far,  incommensurably  truer,  than  was  to  be  found 
in  the  elaborate  metaphysics  of  utilitarian  ethics.  In  rev¬ 
elation,  technically  so  called,  revelation  confirmed  by  his- 


Carlyle's  Religion. 


3 


torical  miracles,  he  was  unable  to  believe — be  felt  himself 
forbidden  to  believe — by  the  light  that  was  in  him.  In 
other  ages  men  bad  seen  miracles  where  there  were  none, 
and  bad  related  them  in  perfect  good  faith  in  their  eager¬ 
ness  to  realise  the  divine  presence  in  the  world.  They 
did  not  know  enough  of  nature  to  be  on  their  guard 
against  alleged  suspensions  of  its  unvarying  order.  To 
Carlyle  the  universe  was  itself  a  miracle,  and  all  its  phe¬ 
nomena  were  equally  in  themselves  incomprehensible. 
But  the  special  miraculous  occurrences  of  sacred  history 
were  not  credible  to  him.  ‘It  is  as  certain  as  mathe¬ 
matics,’  he  said  to  me  late  in  his  own  life,  ‘  that  no  such 
thing  ever  has  been  or  can  be.’  He  had  learnt  that  effects 
succeeded  causes  uniformly  and  inexorably  without  inter¬ 
mission  or  interruption,  and  that  tales  of  wonder  were  as 
little  the  true  accounts  of  real  occurrences  as  the  theory  of 
epicycles  was  a  correct  explanation  of  the  movements  of 
the  planets. 

So  far  his  thoughts  on  this  subject  did  not  differ  widely 
from  those  of  his  sceptical  contemporaries,  but  his  further 
conclusions  not  only  were  not  their  conclusions,  but  were 
opposed  to  them  by  whole  diameters ;  for  while  he  re¬ 
jected  the  literal  narrative  of  the  sacred  writers,  he  be¬ 
lieved  as  strongly  as  any  Jewish  prophet  or  Catholic  saint 
in  the  spiritual  truths  of  religion.  The  effort  of  his  life 
was  to  rescue  and  reassert  those  truths  which  were  being 
dragged  down  by  the  weight  with  which  they  were  encum¬ 
bered.  He  explained  his  meaning  by  a  remarkable  illus¬ 
tration.  He  had  not  come  (so  far  as  he  knew  his  own  pur¬ 
pose)  to  destroy  the  law  and  the  prophets,  but  to  fulfil  them, 
to  expand  the  conception  of  religion  with  something  wider, 
grander,  and  more  glorious  than  the  wildest  enthusiasm 
had  imagined. 

The  old  world  had  believed  that  the  earth  was  station¬ 
ary,  and  that  the  sun  and  stars  moved  round  it  as  its  guar- 


4 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

dian  attendants.  Science  had  discovered  that  sun  and 
stars,  if  they  had'  proper  motion  of  their  own,  yet  in  re¬ 
spect  of  the  earth  were  motionless,  and  that  the  varying 
aspect  of  the  sky  was  due  to  the  movements  of  the  earth 
itself.  The  change  was  humbling  to  superficial  vanity. 

‘  The  stars  in  their  courses  ’  could  no  longer  be  supposed 
to  fight  against  earthly  warriors,  or  comets  to  foretell  the 
havoc  on  fields  of  slaughter,  or  the  fate  and  character  of  a 
prince  to  he  affected  by  the  constellation  under  which  he 
was  born.  But  if  the  conceit  of  the  relative  importance 
of  man  was  diminished,  his  conception  of  the  system  of 
which  he  was  a  part  had  become  immeasurably  more  mag¬ 
nificent  ;  while  every  phenomenon  which  had  been  actually 
and  faithfully  observed  remained  unaffected.  Sun  and 
moon  were  still  the  earthly  time-keepers  ;  and  the  mariner 
still  could  guide  his  course  across  the  ocean  by  the  rising 
and  setting  of  the  same  stars  which  Ulysses  had  watched 
upon  his  raft. 

Carlyle  conceived  that  a  revolution  precisely  analogous 
to  that  which  Galileo  had  wrought  in  our  apprehension  of 
the  material  heaven  was  silently  in  progress  in  our  atti¬ 
tude  towards  spiritual  phenomena. 

The  spiritual  universe,  like  the  visible,  was  the  same 
yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever,  and  legends  and  theologies 
were,  like  the  astronomical  theories  of  the  Babylonians, 
Egyptians,  or  Greeks,  true  so  far  as  they  were  based  on 
facts,  which  entered  largely  into  the  composition  of  the 
worst  of  them — true  so  far  as  they  were  the  honest  efforts 
of  man’s  intellect  and  conscience  and  imagination  to  in¬ 
terpret  the  laws  under  which  he  was  living,  and  regulate 
his  life  by  them.  But  underneath  or  beyond  all  these 
speculations  lay  the  facts  of  spiritual  life,  the  moral  and 
intellectual  constitution  of  things  as  it  actually  was  in. 
eternal  consistence.  The  theories  which  dispensed  with 
God  and  the  soul  Carlyle  utterly  abhorred.  It  was  not 


Spiritual  Phenomena. 


5 


credible  to  him,  lie  said,  that  intellect  and  conscience 
could  have  been  placed  in  him  by  a  Being  which  had  none 
of  its  own.  He-  rarely  spoke  of  this.  The  word  God  was 
too  awful  for  common  use,  and  he  veiled  his  meaning  in 
metaphors  to  avoid  it.  But  God  to  him  was  the  fact  of 
facts.  Tie  looked  on  this  whole  system  of  visible  or  spir¬ 
itual  phenomena  as  a  manifestation  of  the  will  of  God  in 
constant  forces,  forces  not  mechanical  but  dynamic,  inter¬ 
penetrating  and  controlling  all  existing  things,  from  the 
utmost  bounds  of  space  to  the  smallest  granule  on  the 
earth’s  surface,  from  the  making  of  the  world  to  the  light¬ 
est  action  of  a  man.  God’s  law  was  every  where :  man’s 
welfare  depended  on  the  faithful  reading  of  it.  Society 
was  but  a  higher  organism,  no  accidental  agreement  of 
individual  persons  or  families  to  live  together  on  condi¬ 
tions  which  they  could  arrange  for  themselves,  but  a  natu¬ 
ral  growth,  the  conditions  of  which  were  already  inflexibly 
laid  down.  Human  life  was  like  a  garden,  4  to  which 
the  will  was  gardener,’  and  the  moral  fruits  and  flowers, 
or  the  immoral  poisonous  weeds,  grew  inevitably  accord¬ 
ing  as  the  rules  already  appointed  were  discovered  and 
obeyed,  or  slighted,  overlooked,  or  defied.  TTo  thing  was 
indifferent.  Every  step  which  a  man  could  take  was  in 
the  right  direction  or  the  wrong.  If  in  the  right,  the 
result  was  as  it  should  be;  if  in  the  wrong,  the  excuse 
of  ignorance  would  not  avail  to  prevent  the  inevitable 
consequence. 

These  in  themselves  are  but  commonplace  propositions 
which  no  one  denies  in  words ;  but  Carlyle  saw  in  the  en¬ 
tire  tone  of  modern  thought,  that  practically  men  no 
longer  really  believed  them.  They  believed  in  expedi¬ 
ency,  in  the  rights  of  man,  in  government  by  majorities; 
as  if  they  could  make  their  laws  for  themselves.  The  law, 
did  they  but  know  it,  was  already  made ;  and  their  wis¬ 
dom,  if  they  wished  to  prosper,  was  not  to  look  for  what 


6 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

was  convenient  to  themselves,  but  for  what  had  been  de¬ 
cided  already  in  Mature’s  chancery. 

Many  corollaries  followed  from  such  a  creed  when  sin¬ 
cerely  and  passionately  held.  In  arts  and  sciences  the 
authority  is  the  expert  who  understands  his  business.  To 
one  dreamt  of  discovering  a  longitude  by  the  vote  of  a 
majority ;  and  those  who  trusted  to  any  such  methods 
would  learn  that  they  had  been  fools  by  running  upon  the 
rocks.  The  science  of  life  was  no  easier — was  harder  far 
than  the  science  of  navigation  :  the  phenomena  were  infi¬ 
nitely  more  complex ;  and  the  consequences  of  error  were 
infinitely  more  terrible.  The  rights  of  man,  properly 
understood,  meant  the  right  of  the  wise  to  rule,  and  the 
right  of  the  ignorant  to  be  ruled.  4  The  gospel  of  force,’ 
of  the  divine  right  of  the  strong,  with  which  Carlyle  lias 
been  so  often  taunted  with  teaching,  merely  meant  that 
when  a  man  lias  visibly  exercised  any  great  power  in  this 
world,  it  has  been  because  he  has  truly  and  faithfully  seen 
into  the  facts  around  him  ;  seen  them  more  accurately  and 
interpreted  them  more  correctly  than  his  contemporaries. 
He  has  become  in  himself,  as  it  were,  one  of  nature’s 
forces,  imperatively  insisting  that  certain  things  must  be 
done.  Success  may  blind  him,  and  then  he  mis-sees  the 
facts  and  comes  to  ruin.  But  while  his  strength  remains 
he  is  strong  through  the  working  of  a  power  greater  than 
himself.  The  old  Bible  language  that  God  raised  up  such 
and  such  a  man  for  a  special  purpose  represents  a  genuine 
truth. 

But  let  us  hear  Carlyle  himself.  The  following  pas¬ 
sages  were  written  in  1852,  more  than  twenty  years  after 
the  time  at  which  we  have  now  arrived.  Figure  and  ar- 
gument  were  borrowed  from  new  appliances  which  had 
sprung  into  being  in  the  interval.  But  the  thought  ex¬ 
pressed  in  them  was  as  old  as  Iloddam  Hill  when  they 
furnished  the  armour  in  which  he  encountered  Apollyon. 


7 


Spiritual  Optics. 

They  are  but  broken  thoughts,  flung  out  as  they  presented 
themselves,  and  wanting  the  careful  touch  with  which 
Carlyle  finished  work  which  he  himself  passed  through 
the  press ;  but  I  give  them  as  they  remain  in  his  own 
handwriting. 


Spiritual  Optics. 

Why  do  men  shriek  so  over  one  another’s  creeds?  A  certain 
greatness  of  heart  for  all  manner  of  conceptions  and  misconcep¬ 
tions  of  the  Inconceivable  is  now  if  ever  in  season.  Reassure  thy¬ 
self,  my  poor  assaulted  brother.  Starting  from  the  east,  a  man’s 
road  seems  horribly  discordant  with  thine,  which  is  so  resolutely 
forcing  itself  forward  by  tunnel  and  incline,  victorious  over  imped¬ 
iments  from  the  western  quarter.  Yet  see,  you  are  both  struggling, 
more  or  less  honestly,  towards  the  centre — all  mortals  are  unless 
they  be  diabolic  and  not  human.  Recollect  with  pity,  with  smiles 
and  tears,  however  high  thou  be,  the  efforts  of  the  meanest  man. 
Intolerance  coiled  like  a  dragon  round  treasures  which  were  the 
palladium  of  mankind  was  not  so  bad ;  nay,  rather  was  indispensa¬ 
ble  and  good.  But  intolerance,  coiled  and  hissing  in  that  horrid 
manner,  now  when  the  treasures  are  all  fled,  and  there  are  nothing 
but  empty  pots  new  and  old — pots  proposing  that  they  shall  be 
filled,  and  pots  asserting  that  they  were  once  full — what  am  I  to 
make  of  that  ?  Intolerance  with  nothing  to  protest  but  empty  pots 
and  eggs  that  are  fairly  addle,  is  doubly  and  trebly  intolerable. 
I  do  not  praise  the  tolerance  talked  of  in  these  times ;  but  I  do 
see  the  wisdom  of  a  Truce  of  God  being  appointed,  which  you 
may  christen  tolerance,  and  everywhere  proclaim  by  drum  and 
trumpet,  by  public  cannon  from  the  high  places,  and  by  private 
fiddle,  till  once  there  be  achieved  for  us  something  to  be  intolerant 
about  again.  There  are  a  few  men  who  have  even  at  present  a 
certain  right,  call  it  rather  a  certain  terrible  duty,  to  be  intolerant, 
and  I  hope  that  these  will  be  even  more,  and  that  their  intolerance 
will  grow  ever  nobler,  diviner,  more  victorious.  But  how  few  are 
there  in  all  the  earth  !  Be  not  so  much  alarmed  at  the  opulences, 
spiritual  or  material,  of  this  world.  Whether  they  be  of  the  hand 
or  the  mind,  whether  consisting  of  St.  Katherine’s  docks,  bloom¬ 
ing  cornfields,  and  filled  treasuries,  or  of  sacred  philosophies,  the¬ 
ologies,  bodies  of  science,  recorded  heroisms,  and  accumulated 
conquests  of  wisdom  and  harmonious  human  utterances — they 


8 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

have  all  been  amassed  by  little  and  little.  Poor  insignificant 
transitory  bipeds  little  better  than  thyself  have  ant-wise  accumu¬ 
lated  them  all.  How  inconsiderable  was  the  contribution  of  each  ; 
yet  working  with  hand  or  with  head  in  the  strenuous  ardour  of 
their  heart,  they  did  what  w*as  in  them  ;  and  here,  so  magnificent, 
overwhelming,  almost  divine  and  immeasurable,  is  the  summed- 
up  result.  Be  modest  towards  it ;  loyally  reverent  towards  it : 
that  is  well  thy  part.  But  begin  at  last  to  understand  withal  what 
thy  own  real  relation  to  it  is ;  and  that  if  it,  in  its  greatness,  is 
divine,  so  then  in  thy  littleness  art  thou  [not  so  ?]  Lass  Dich  niclit 
verbluffen,  ‘Don’t  let  thyself  be  put  upon’  [no].  ‘Stand  up  for 
thyself  withal.’  That,  say  the  Germans,  is  the  eleventh  command¬ 
ment  ;  and  truly  in  these  times  for  an  ingenuous  soul  there  is  not 
perhaps  in  the  wrhole  Decalogue  a  more  important  one. 

And  in  ail  kinds  of  times,  if  the  ingenuous  soul  could  but  under¬ 
stand  that  only  in  proportion  to  its  own  divineness  can  any  part  or 
lot  in  those  divine  possessions  be  vouchsafed  it,  how  inexpressibly 
important  would  it  be  !  Such  is  for  ever  the  fact ;  though  not  one 
in  the  hundred  now  knows  it  or  surmises  it.  Of  all  these  divine 
possessions  it  is  only  what  thou  art  become  equal  to  that  thou 
canst  take  av^ay  with  thee.  Except  thy  own  eye  have  got  to  see  it, 
except  thy  owm  soul  have  victoriously  struggled  to  clear  vision  and 
belief  of  it,  what  is  the  thing  seen  and  the  thing  believed  by 
another  or  by  never  so  many  others  ?  Alas,  it  is  not  thine,  though 
thou  look  on  it,  brag  about  it,  and  bully  and  fight  about  it  till 
thou  die,  striving  to  persuade  thyself  and  all  men  how  much  it  is 
thine.  Not  it  is  thine,  but  only  a  windy  echo  and  tradition  of  it 
bedded  in  hypocrisy,  ending  sure  enough  in  tragical  futility,  is 
thine.  What  a  result  for  a  human  soul !  In  all  ages,  but  in  this 
age,  named  of  the  printing  press,  with  its  multiform  pulpits  and 
platforms,  beyond  all  others,  the  accumulated  sum  of  such  results 
over  the  general  posterity  of  Adam  in  countries  called  civilised  is 
tragic  to  contemplate  ;  is  in  fact  the  rawr  material  of  every  insin¬ 
cerity,  of  every  scandal,  platitude,  and  ignavia  to  be  seen  under 
the  sun.  If  men  were  only  ignorant  and  knew  that  they  were  so, 
only  void  of  belief  and  sorry  for  it,  instead  of  filled  with  sham  be¬ 
lief  and  proud  of  it — ah  me  !  ! 

The  primary  conception  by  rude  nations  in  regard  to  all  great 
attainments  and  achievements  by  men  is  that  each  vTas  a  miracle 
and  the  gift  of  the  gods.  Language  was  taught  man  by  a  heavenly 
power.  Minerva  gave  him  the  olive,  Neptune  the  horse,  Triptol- 


Spiritual  Optics.  9 

emus  taught  him  agriculture,  &c.  The  effects  of  optics  in  this 
strange  camera  obscura  of  our  existence,  are  most  of  all  singular ! 
The  grand  centre  of  the  modern  revolution  of  ideas  is  even  this — - 
we  begin  to  have  a  notion  that  all  this  is  the  effect  of  optics,  and 
that  the  intrinsic  fact  is  very  different  from  our  old  conception  of 
it.  Not  less  1  miraculous,’  not  less  divine,  but  with  an  altogether 
totally  new  (or  hitherto  unconceived)  species  of  divineness ;  a  di¬ 
vineness  lying  much  nearer  home  than  formerly ;  a  divineness  that 
does  not  come  from  Judaea,  from  Olympus,  Asgard,  Mount  Meru, 
but  is  in  man  himself ;  in  the  heart  of  everyone  born  of  man — a 
grand  revolution,  indeed,  which  is  altering  our  ideas  of  heaven  and 
earth  to  an  amazing  extent  in  every  particular  whatsoever.  From 
top  to  bottom  our  spiritual  world,  and  all  that  depends  on  the 
same,  which  means  nearly  everything  in  the  furniture  of  our  life, 
outward  as  well  as  inward,  is,  as  this  idea  advances,  undergoing 
change  of  the  most  essential  sort,  is  slowly  getting  ‘  overturned,’ 
as  they  angrily  say,  which  in  the  sense  of  being  gradually  turned 
over  and  having  its  vertex  set  where  its  base  used  to  be,  is  indis¬ 
putably  true,  and  means  a  ‘  revolution  ’  such  as  never  was  before, 
or  at  least  since  letters  and  recorded  history  existed  among  us 
never  was.  The  great  Galileo,  or  numerous  small  Galileos,  have 
appeared  in  our  spiritual  world  too,  and  are  making  known  to  us 
that  the  sun  stands  still ;  that  as  for  the  sun  and  stars  and  eternal 
immensities,  they  do  not  move  at  all,  and  indeed  have  something 
else  to  do  than  dance  round  the  like  of  us  and  our  paltry  little 
dog-hutch  of  a  dwelling  place  ;  that  it  is  we  and  our  dog-hutch 
that  are  moving  all  this  while,  giving  rise  to  such  phenomena  ; 
and  that  if  we  would  ever  be  wise  about  our  situation  we  must 
now  attend  to  that  fact.  I  would  fain  sometimes  write  a  book  about 
all  that,  and  try  to  make  it  plain  to  everybody.  But  alas  !  I  find 
again  there  is  next  to  nothing  to  be  said  about  it  in  words  at  pres¬ 
ent— and  indeed  till  lately  I  had  vaguely  supposed  that  everybody 
understood  it,  or  at  least  understood  me  to  mean  it,  which  it  would 
appear  that  they  don’t  at  all. 

A  word  to  express  that  extensive  or  universal  operation  of  refer¬ 
ring  the  motion  from  yourself  to  the  object  you  look  at,  or  vice 
versa  ?  Is  there  none  ? 

A  notable  tendency  of  the  human  being  in  case  of  mutual 
motions  on  the  part  of  himself  and  another  object,  is  to  misinter¬ 
pret  the  said  motion  and  impute  it  to  the  wrong  party.  Biding 
in  this  whirled  vehicle,  how  the  hedges  seem  to  be  in  full  gallop 


10 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

on  each  side  of  him  ;  how  the  woods  and  houses,  and  all  objects 
but  the  fixed  blue  of  heaven,  seem  to  be  madly  careering  at  the 
top  of  their  speed,  stormfully  waltzing  round  transient  centres, 
the  whole  earth  gone  into  menadic  enthusiasm,  he  himself  all  the 
While  locked  into  dead  quiescence  !  And  again,  if  he  is  really  sit¬ 
ting  still  in  his  railway  carriage  at  some  station  when  an  opposite 
train  is  getting  under  way,  his  eye  informs  him  at  once  that  he  is 
at  length  setting  out  and  leaving  his  poor  friends  in  a  stagnant 
state.  How  often  does  he  commit  this  error?  It  is  only  in  ex¬ 
ceptional  cases,  wTlien  helps  are  expressly  provided,  that  he  avoids 
it  and  judges  right  of  the  matter. 

It  is  very  notable  of  the  outward  eye,  and  would  be  insupporta¬ 
ble,  did  not  the  experience  of  each  man  incessantly  correct  it  for 
him,  in  the  common  businesses  and  locomotions  of  this  world.  In 
the  uncommon  locomotion  it  is  not  so  capable  of  correction.  Dur¬ 
ing  how  many  ages  and  aeons,  for  example,  did  not  the  sun  and 
the  moon  and  the  stars  go  all  swashing  in  their  tremendously 
rapid  revolution  every  twenty-four  hours  round  this  little  indolent 
earth  of  ours,  and  were  evidently  seen  to  do  it  by  all  creatures,  till 
at  length  the  Galileo  appeared,  and  the  Newtons  in  the  rear  of 
him.  The  experience  necessary  to  correct  that  erroneous  impres¬ 
sion  of  the  eyesight  was  not  so  easy  of  attainment.  No.  It  lay 
far  apart  from  the  common  businesses,  and  was  of  a  kind  that 
quite  escaped  the  duller  eye.  It  wa^  attained  nevertheless ;  gradu¬ 
ally  got  together  in  the  requisite  quantity ;  promulgated,  too,  in 
spite  of  impediments,  holy  offices,  and  such  like ;  and  is  now  the 
general  property  of  the  world,  and  only  the  horses  and  oxen  can¬ 
not  profit  by  it.  These  are  notable  facts  of  the  outward  eyesight 
and  the  history  of  its  progress  in  surveying  this  material  world. 

But  now,  will  the  favourable  reader  permit  me  to  suggest  to 
him  a  fact  which,  though  it  has  long  been  present  to  the  conscious¬ 
ness  of  here  and  there  a  meditative  individual,  has  not,  perhaps, 
struck  the  favourable  reader  hitherto — that  with  the  inward  eye¬ 
sight  and  the  spiritual  universe  there  is  always,  and  has  always, 
been  the  same  game  going  on.  Precisely  a  similar  game,  to  infer 
motion  of  your  own  when  it  is  the  object  seen  that  moves ;  and 
rest  of  your  own  with  menadic  storming  of  all  the  gods  and  de¬ 
mons ;  while  it  is  yourself  with  the  devilish  and  divine  impulses 
that  you  have,  that  are  going  at  express  train  speed !  I  say  the 
Galileo  of  this,  many  small  Galileos  of  this,  have  appeared  some 
time  ago — having  at  length  likewise  collected  (with  what  infinitely 


11 


Spiritual  Optics. 

greater  labour,  sorrow,  and  endurance  than  your  material  Galileo 
needed)  the  experience  necessary  for  correcting  such  illusions  of 
the  inner  eyesight  in  its  turn — a  crowning  discovery,  as  I  some¬ 
times  call  it,  the  essence  and  summary  of  all  the  sad  struggles  and 
wrestlings  of  these  last  three  centuries.  No  man  that  reflects  need 
be  admonished  what  a  pregnant  discovery  this  is ;  how  it  is  the 
discovery  of  discoveries,  and  as  men  become  more  and  more  sensi¬ 
ble  of  it  will  remodel  the  whole  world  for  us  in  a  most  blessed  and 
surprising  manner.  Such  continents  of  sordid  delirium  (for  it  is 
really  growing  now  very  sordid)  will  vanish  like  a  foul  Walpurgis 
night  at  the  first  streaks  of  dawn*  Do  but  consider  it.  The  de¬ 
lirious  dancing  of  the  universe  is  stilled,  but  the  universe  itself 
(what  scepticism  did  not  suspect)  is  still  all  there.  God,  heaven, 
hell,  are  none  of  them  annihilated  for  us,  any  more  than  the 
material  woods  and  houses.  Nothing  that  was  divine,  sublime, 
demonic,  beautiful,  or  terrible  is  in  the  least  abolished  for  us  as 
the  poor  pre-Galileo  fancied  it  might  be ;  only  their  mad  dancing- 
lias  ceased,  and  they  are  all  reduced  to  dignified  composure ;  any 
madness  that  was  in  it  being  recognised  as  our  own  henceforth. 

What  continents  of  error,  world-devouring  armies  of  illusions 
and  of  foul  realities  that  have  their  too  true  habitation  and  too 
.  sad  function  among  such,  will  disappear  at  last  wholly  from  our 
field  of  vision,  and  leave  a  serener  veritable  world  for  us.  Scav- 
engerism,  which  under  Chadwick  makes  such  progress  in  the 
material  streets  and  beneath  them,  will  alarmingly  but  benefi¬ 
cently  reign  in  the  spiritual  fields  and  thoroughfares ;  and  deluges 
of  spiritual  water,  which  is  light,  which  is  clear,  pious  vision  and 
conviction,  will  have  washed  our  inner  world  clean  too  with  truly 
celestial  results  for  us.  Oh,  my  friend,  I  advise  thee  awake  to 
that  fact,  now  discovered  of  the  inner  eyesight,  as  it  was  long 
since  of  the  outer,  that  not  the  sun  and  the  stars  are  so  rapidly 
dashing  'round ;  nor  the  woods  and  distant  steeples  and  country 
mansions  are  deliriously  dancing  and  waltzing  round  accidental 
centres  :  that  it  is  thyself,  and  thy  little  dog-hole  of  a  ifianet  or 
dwelling-place,  that  are  doing  it  merely. 

It  was  God,  I  suppose,  that  made  the  Jewish  people  and  gave 
them  their  hook-noses,  obstinate  characters,  and  all  the  other 
gifts,  faculties,  tendencies,  and  equipments  they  were  launched 
upon  the  world  with.  No  doubt  about  that  in  any  quarter. 
These  were  the  general  outfit  of  the  Jews,  given  them  by  God 


12 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

and  none  else  whatever.  And  now,  if  in  the  sedulous  use  of  said 
equipments,  faculties,  and  general  outfit,  with  such  opportunities 
as  then  were,  the  Jew  people  did  in  the  course  of  ages  work  out 
for  themselves  a  set  of  convictions  about  this  universe  which  were 
undeniable  to  them,  and  of  practices  grounded  thereon  which 
were  felt  to  be  salutary  and  imperative  upon  them,  were  not  the 
Jew  people  bound  at  their  peril  temporal  and  eternal  to  cherish 
such  convictions  and  observe  said  practices  with  whatever  strictest 
punctuality  was  possible,  and  to  be  supremely  thankful  that  they 
had  achieved  such  a  possession  ?  I  fancy  they  would  do  all  this 
with  a  punctuality  and  devoutness  and  sacred  rigour  in  exact  pro¬ 
portion  to  the  quantity  of  obstinate  human  method,  piety,  per¬ 
sistence,  or  of  that  Jewliood  and  manhood,  and  general  worth  and 
wisdom,  that  were  in  them  ;  for  which  be  they  honoured  as  Jews 
and  men.  And  if  now  they  please  to  call  all  this  by  the  highest 
names  in  their  vocabulary,  and  think  silently,  and  reverently 
speak  of  it,  as  promulgated  by  their  great  Jehovah  and  Creator 
for  them,  wThere  was  the  harm  for  the  time  being?  Was  it  not 
intrinsically  true  that  their  and  our  unnameable  Creator  had  re¬ 
vealed  it  to  them  ?  having  given  them  the  outfit  of  faculties,  char¬ 
acter,  and  situation  for  discerning  and  believing  the  same?  Poor 
souls  !  they  fancied  their  railway  carriage  (going  realty  at  a  great 
rate,  I  think,  and  with  a  terrible  noise  through  the  country)  was 
perfectly  motionless,  and  that  they  at  least  saw  the  landscape,  dis¬ 
cerned  what  landscape  there  was  dancing  and  waltzing  round 
them.  Their  error  was  the  common  one  incidental  to  all  passen¬ 
gers  and  movers  through  this  world — except  those  overloaded  busy 
eating  individuals  that  make  their  transit  sleeping.  Yes :  fall  well 
asleep ;  you  will  not  think  the  landscape  waltzes  ;  you  wall  see  no 
landscape,  but  in  their  dim  vastness  the  turbid  whirlpools  of  your 
own  indigestions  and  nightmare  dreams.  You  will  be  troubled 
with  no  misconceptions  of  a  Godhood,  Providence,  Judgment  Pay, 
eternal  soul  of  night,  or  other  sublimity  in  this  world;  Looking 
into  your  own  digestive  apparatus  when  sleep  has  melted  it  into 
the  immense,  you  snore  quietly  and  are  free  from  all  that. 

So  far  Carlyle  had  written,  and  then  threw  it  aside  as 
unsatisfactory,  as  not  adequately  expressing  his  meaning, 
and  therefore  not  to  he  proceeded  with.  But  a  very  intel¬ 
ligible  meaning  shines  through  it ;  and  when  I  told  him 
that  I  had  found  and  read  it,  he  said  that  it  contained  his 


13 


Spiritual  Optics. 

real  conviction,  a  conviction  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  all 
his  thoughts  about  man  and  man’s  doings  in  this  world.  A 
sense  lay  upon  him  that  this  particular  truth  was  one  which 
he  was  specially  called  on  to  insist  upon,  yet  he  could 
never  get  it  completely  accomplished.  On  another  loose 
sheet  of  rejected  MS.  I  find  the  same  idea  stated  somewhat 
differently : — 

Singular  what  difficulty  I  have  in  getting  my  poor  message  de¬ 
livered  to  the  world  in  this  epoch  :  things  I  imperatively  need 
still  to  say. 

1.  That  all  history  is  a  Bible — a  thing  stated  in  words  by  me 
more  than  once,  and  adopted  in  a  sentimental  way ;  but  nobody 
can  I  bring  fairly  into  it,  nobody  persuade  to  take  it  up  practically 
as  a  fact. 

2.  Part  of  the  ‘  grand  Unintelligible/  that  we  are  now  learning 
spiritually  too — that  the  earth  turns,  not  the  sun  and  heavenly 
spheres.  One  day  the  spiritual  astronomers  will  find  that  this  is 
the  infinitely  greater  miracle.  The  universe  is  not  an  orrery,  theo¬ 
logical  or  other,  but  a  universe  ;  and  instead  of  paltry  theologic 
brass  spindles  for  axis,  &c.,  has  laws  of  gravitation,  laws  of  attrac¬ 
tion  and  repulsion  ;  is  not  a  Ptolemaic  but  a  Newtonian  universe. 
As  Humboldt’s  ‘Cosmos’  to  a  fable  of  children,  so  will  the  new 
world  be  in  comparison  with  what  the  old  one  was,  &c. 

3.  And  flowing  out  of  this,  that  the  work  of  genius  is  not  fiction 
but  fact.  How  dead  are  all  people  to  that  truth,  recognising  it  in 
word  merely,  not  in  deed  at  all !  Histories  of  Europe  !  Our  own 
history  !  Eheu !  If  we  had  any  vivacity  of  soul  and  could  get  the 
old  Hebrew  spectacles  oft*  our  nose,  should  we  run  to  Judaea  or 
Houndsditch  to  look  at  the  doings  of  the  Supreme  ?  Who  con¬ 
quered  anarchy  and  chained  it  everywhere  under  their  feet  ?  Not 
the  Jews  with  their  morbid  imaginations  and  foolish  sheepskin 
Targums.  The  Norse  with  their  steel  swords  guided  by  fresh  val¬ 
iant  hearts  and  clear  veracious  understanding,  it  was  they  and  not 
the  Jews.  The  supreme  splendour  will  be  seen  there,  I  should 
imagine,  not  in  Palestine  or  Houndsditch  any  more.  Man  of 
genius  to  interpret  history !  After  interpreting  the  Greeks  and 
Homans  for  a  thousand  years,  let  us  now  try  our  own  a  little. 
(How  clear  this  has  been  to  myself  for  a  long  while !)  Not  one 
soul,  I  believe,  has  yet  taken  it  into  him.  Universities  founded 


14 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

by  monk  ages  are  not  fit  at  all  for  this  age.  'Learn  to  read 
Greek,  to  read  Latin  ’ !  You  cannot  be  saved  (religiously  speak¬ 
ing  too)  with  those  languages.  What  of  reason  there  was  in  that ! 
Beautiful  loyalty  to  the  ancients  Dante  and  Virgil,  il  duca  mio. 
Beautiful  truly  so  far  as  it  goes  !  But  the  superfoetation  is  now 
grown  perilous,  deadly,  horrible,  if  you  could  see  it ! 

Old  piety  was  wont  to  say  that  God’s  judgments  tracked  the 
footsteps  of  the  criminal ;  that  all  violation  of  the  eternal  laws, 
done  in  the  deepest  recesses  or  on  the  conspicuous  high  places  of 
the  world,  was  absolutely  certain  of  its  punishment.  You  could 
do  no  evil,  you  could  do  no  good,  but  a  god  would  repay  it  to  you. 
It  was  as  certain  as  that  when  you  shot  an  arrow  from  the  earth, 
gravitation  would  bring  it  back  to  the  earth.  The  all-embracing 
law  of  right  and  wrong  was  as  inflexible,  as  sure  and  exact,  as  that 
of  gravitation.  Furies  with  their  serpent  hair  and  infernal  mad¬ 
dening  torches  followed  Orestes  who  had  murdered  his  mother. 
In  the  still  deeper  soul  of  modern  Christendom  there  hung  the 
tremendous  image  of  a  Doomsday — Dies  irce,  dies  ilia — when  the 
All-just,  without  mercy  now,  with  only  terrific  accuracy  now,  would 
judge  the  quick  and  the  dead,  and  to  each  soul  measure  out  the 
reward  of  his  deeds  done  in  the  body — eternal  Heaven  to  the  good, 
to  the  bad  eternal  Hell.  The  Moslem  too,  and  generally  the  Ori¬ 
ental  peoples,  who  are  of  a  more  religious  nature,  have  conceived 
it  so,  and  taken  it,  not  as  a  conceit,  but  as  a  terrible  fact,  and  have 
studiously  founded,  or  studiously  tried  to  found,  their  practical 
existence  upon  the  same. 

My  friend,  it  well  behoves  us  to  reflect  how  true  essentially  all 
this  still  is  :  that  it  continues,  and  will  continue,  fundamentally  a 
fact  in  all  essential  particulars — its  certainty,  I  say  its  infallible 
certainty,  its  absolute  justness,  and  all  the  other  particulars,  tlio 
eternity  itself  included.  He  that  has  with  his  eyes  and  soul 
Jooked  into  nature  from  any  point — and  not  merely  into  distracted 
theological,  metaphysical,  modern  philosophical,  or  other  cobweb 
representations  of  nature  at  second  hand — will  find  this  true,  that 
only  the  vesture  of  it  is  changed  for  us ;  that  the  essence  of  it  can¬ 
not  change  at  all.  Banish  all  miracles  from  it.  Do  not  name  the 
name  of  God ;  it  is  still  true. 

Once  more  it  is  in  religion  with  us,  as  in  astronomy — we  know 
now  that  the  earth  moves.  But  it  has  not  annihilated  the  stars 
for  us ;  it  has  infinitely  exalted  and  expanded  the  stars  and  uni¬ 
verse.  Once  it  seemed  evident  the  sun  did  daily  rise  in  the  east ; 


15 


Spiritual  Optics. 

the  big  sun— a  sun-god— did  travel  for  us,  driving  his  chariot  over 
the  crystal  floor  all  days  :  at  any  rate  the  sun  icent.  Now  we  find 
it  is  only  the  earth  that  goes.  So  too  all  mythologies,  religious 
conceptions,  &c.,  we  begin  to  discover,  are  the  necessary  products 
of  man’s  godmade  mind. 

X  need  add  little  to  these  two  fragments,  save  to  repeat 
that  they  are  the  key  to  Carlyle’s  mind ;  that  the  thought 
which  they  contain,  although  nowhere  more  articulately 
written  out,  governed  all  his  judgments  of  men  and  things. 
In  this  faith  he  had  ‘  trampled  down  his  own  spiritual 
dragons.’  In  this  faith  he  interpreted  human  history, 
which  history  witnessed  in  turn  to  the  truth  of  his  con¬ 
victions.  He  saw  that  now  as  much  as  ever  the  fate  of 
nations  depended  not  on  their  material  development,  but, 
as  had  been  said  in  the  Bible,  and  among  all  serious  peo¬ 
ples,  on  the  moral  virtues,  courage,  veracity,  purity,  justice, 
and  good  sense.  Nations  where  these  were  honoured  pros¬ 
pered  and  became  strong;  nations  which  professed  well 
with  their  lips,  while  their  hearts  wTere  set  on  wealth  and 
pleasure,  were  overtaken,  as  truly  in  modern  Europe  as  in 
ancient  Palestine,  by  the  judgment  of  God. 

‘  I  should  not  have  known  what  to  make  of  this  world 
at  all,’  Carlyle  once  said  to  me,  c  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
French  Revolution.’ 

This  might  be  enough  to  say  on  Carlyle’s  religion ;  but 
there  is  one  aspect  of  religion  on  which  everyone  who 
thinks  at  all  will  wish  to  know  his  opinion.  What  room 
could  there  be  for  prayer  in  such  a  scheme  of  belief  as  his? 
In  one  form  or  other  it  lias  been  a  universal  difficulty. 
IIow  should  ignorant  man  presume  to  attempt  to  influence 
the  will  of  his  Creator,  who  by  the  necessity  of  his  nature 
cannot  change,  and  must  and  will  on  all  occasions  and  to 
all  persons  do  what  is  just  and  right  ? 

Reason  cannot  meet  the  objection.  Yet  nevertheless 
men  of  the  highest  powers  have  prayed  and  continue  to 


16 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

pray.  I  am  permitted  to  publish  the  following  letters, 
which  show  what  Carlyle  thought  about  it  in  1870.  And 
as  he  thought  in  1870,  he  thought  in  1828.  His  mind 
when  it  was  once  made  up  never  wavered,  never  even 
varied. 

From  George  A.  Duncan  to  Thomas  Carlyle. 

4  Eyre  Place,  Edinburgh  :  June  4,  1870. 

Honoured  Sir, — I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  but  my  grandfather, 
Dr.  Henry  Duncan,  of  Ruthwell,  was  not,  and  it  is  a  good  deal  on 
that  ground  that  I  rest  my  plea  for  addressing  you.  Of  all  the 
things  I  possess  there  is  none  I  value  more  than  a  copy  of  your 
translation  of  ‘  Meister’s  Apprenticeship,’  presented  to  my  grand¬ 
father  by  you,  and  bearing  on  its  fly-leaf  these  to  me  thrice  pre¬ 
cious  words : — ‘  To  the  Eev.  Dr.  Duncan,  from  his  grateful  and 
affectionate  friend  T.  Carlyle.’  I  show  it  to  all  my  friends  with 
the  utmost  pride.  But  I  have  another  plea.  I  was  one  of  those 
Edinburgh  students  to  whom,  as  a  father  to  his  sons,  you  addressed 
words  which  I  have  read  over  at  least  six  times,  and  mean,  while 
I  live,  to  remember  and  obey.  I  have  still  one  plea  more.  You 
know  that  in  this  country,  when  people  are  perplexed  or  in  doubt, 
they  go  to  their  minister  for  counsel :  you  are  my  minister,  my 
only  minister,  my  honoured  and  trusted  teacher,  and  to  you  I, 
having  for  more  than  a  year  back  ceased  to  believe  as  my  fathers 
believed  in  matters  of  religion,  and  being  now  an  inquirer  in 
that  field,  come  for  light  on  the  subject  of  prayer.  There  are 
repeated  expressions  in  your  works  which  convince  me  that  in 
some  form  or  other  you  believe  in  prayer,  and  the  fact  that  the 
wisest  men,  Luther,  Knox,  Cromwell,  and  that  greater  Man  whose 
servants  they  were,  were  pre-eminently  men  of  prayer,  is  at  vari¬ 
ance  with  the  thought  which  still  forces  itself  upon  me,  that  to 
attempt  to  change  the  Will  of  Him  who  is  Best  and  Wisest  (and 
what  is  prayer,  if  it  is  not  that?)  is  in  the  last  degree  absurd. 
The  only  right  prayer,  it  seems  to  me,  is  ‘  Thy  will  be  done  ;  ’  and 
that  is  a  needless  one,  for  God’s  will  shall  assuredly  be  done  at 
any  rate.  Is  it  too  much  to  hope  that  you  will  kindly  write  me  a 
few  lines  throwing  light  on  this  subject  ?  I  have  read  Goethe’s 
‘  Confessions  of  a  Fair  Saint,’  and  also  what  you  say  with  regard  to 
Cromwell’s  prayers,  but  still  I  have  not  been  able  to  arrive  at  a 
conviction.  Lest  these  remarks  should  seem  to  you  intolerably 
shallow,  I  must  inform  you  that  I  am  only  twenty. 


Letters  on  Prayer.  17 

Would  it  interest  you  in  any  measure  to  read  some  letters  writ¬ 
ten  by  you  to  Mr.  Robert  Mitchell  when  this  old  century  was  in 
its  teens,  and  thus  recall  from  your  own  beloved  past  a  thousand 
persons,  thoughts,  and  scenes  and  schemes  bygone  ?  Mr.  M.  left 
my  grand-uncle,  Mr.  Craig,  one  of  his  trustees,  and  among  the 
papers  which  thus  fell  into  Mr.  Craig’s  hands  were  several  letters 
from  you  to  Mr.  Mitchell.  Mr.  C.’s  daughters  lately  gave  them 
to  one  of  my  sisters,  and  I  believe  that  if  you  expressed  the  slight¬ 
est  wish  to  see  them,  I  should  be  able  to  persuade  her  to  let  me 
send  them  to  you,  though  she  guards  them  very  jealously. 

Believe  me,  yours  ever  gratefully, 

Geo.  A.  Duncan. 

Thomas  Carlyle  to  George  A.  Duncan . 

Chelsea  :  June  9,  1870. 

Dear  Sir, — You  need  no  apology  for  addressing  me  ;  your  letter 
itself  is  of  amiable  ingenuous  character  ;  pleasant  and  interesting 
to  me  in  no  common  degree.  I  am  sorry  only  that  I  cannot  set  at 
rest,  or  settle  into  clearness,  your  doubts  on  that  important  sub¬ 
ject.  What  I  myself  practically,  in  a  half -articulate  way,  believe 
on  it  I  will  try  to  express  for  you. 

First,  then,  as  to  your  objection  of  setting  up  our  poor  wish  or 
will  in  opposition  to  the  will  of  the  Eternal,  I  have  not  the  least 
word  to  say  in  contradiction  of  it.  And  this  seems  to  close,  and 
does,  in  a  sense  though  not  perhaps  in  all  senses,  close  the  ques¬ 
tion  of  our  prayers  being  granted,  or  what  is  called  ‘  heard  ;  ’  but 
that  is  not  the  whole  question. 

For,  on  the  other  hand,  prayer  is  and  remains  always  a  native 
and  deepest  impulse  of  the  soul  of  man  ;  and  correctly  gone  about, 
is  of  the  very  highest  benefit  (nay,  one  might  say,  indispensability) 
to  every  man  aiming  morally  high  in  this  world.  No  prayer  no  re¬ 
ligion,  or  at  least  only  a  dumb  and  lamed  one  !  Prayer  is  a  turning 
of  one’s  soul,  in  heroic  reverence,  in  infinite  desire  and  endeavour, 
towards  the  Highest,  the  All-Excellent,  Omnipotent,  Supreme. 
The  modern  Hero,  therefore,  ought  not  to  give  up  praying,  as  he 
has  latterly  all  but  done. 

Words  of  prayer,  in  this  epoch,  I  know  hardly  any.  But  the 
act  of  prayer,  in  great  moments,  I  believe  to  be  still  possible  ;  and 
that  one  should  gratefully  accept  such  moments,  and  count  them 
blest,  when  they  come,  if  come  they  do — which  latter  is  a  most 
rigorous  preliminary  question  with  us  in  all  cases.  ‘  Can  \  gray 
Vol.  II.— 2 


18  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

in  tliis  moment’  (much  as  I  may  wish  to  do  so)?  ‘If  not,  then 
no  !  ’  I  can  at  least  stand  silent,  inquiring,  and  not  blasphemously 
lie  in  this  Presence  ! 

On  the  whole,  Silence  is  the  one  safe  form  of  prayer  known  to 
me,  in  this  poor  sordid  era — though  there  are  ejaculatory  words' 
too  which  occasionally  rise  on  one,  with  a  felt  propriety  and  ve¬ 
racity  ;  words  very  welcome  in  such  case !  Prayer  is  the  aspira¬ 
tion  of  our  poor  struggling  heavy-laden  soul  towards  its  Eternal 
Father ;  and,  with  or  without  words,  ought  not  to  become  impos¬ 
sible,  nor,  I  persuade  myself,  need  it  ever.  Loyal  sons  and  sub¬ 
jects  can  approach  tlie  King’s  throne  who  have  no  ‘request’  to 
make  there,  except  that  they  may  continue  loyal.  Cannot  they? 

This  is  all  I  can  say  to  you,  my  good  young  friend  ;  and  even 
this,  on  my  part  and  on  yours,  is  perhaps  too  much.  Silence, 
silence !  ‘  The  Highest  cannot  be  spoken  of  in  words,’  says 

Goethe.  Nothing  so  desecrates  mankind  as  their  continual  bab¬ 
bling,  both  about  the  speakable  and  the  unspeakable,  in  this  bad 
time ! 

Your  grandfather  was  the  amiablest  and  kindliest  of  men  ;  to  me 
pretty  much  a  unique  in  those  young  years,  the  one  cultivated  man 
whom  I  could  feel  myself  permitted  to  call  friend  as  well.  Never 
can  I  forget  that  Euthwell  Manse,  and  the  beautiful  souls  (your 
grandmother,  your  grand-aunts,  and  others)  who  then  made  it 
bright  to  me.  All  vanished  now,  all  vanished  ! 

Please  tell  me  whose  son  you  are — not  George  John’s,  I  think, 
but  Wallace’s,  whom  I  can  remember  only  as  a  grave  boy  ?  Also 
whether  bonny  little  ‘  Barbara  Duncan  ’  is  still  living  ;  or  indeed 
if  she  ever  lived  to  be  your  aunt  ?  I  have  some  sad  notion  No. 
I  will  not  trouble  you  about  the  Mitchell  letters  :  I  Avrote  many 
letters  to  the  good  Mitchell ;  but  I  fear  now  they  were  all  of  a 
foolish  type,  fitter  to  burn  than  to  read  at  present.  Tell  me  also, 
if  you  like,  a  little  more  about  yourself,  your  pursuits  and  endeav¬ 
ours,  your  intended  course  in  the  world.  You  perceive  I  expect 
from  you  one  more  letter  at  least,  though  it  is  doubtful  whether  I 
can  answer  any  more,  for  reasons  you  may  see  sufficiently  ! 

Believe  me,  dear  Sir, 

Yours  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

T.  Caelyle. 


CHAPTER  II. 


A,D.  182S.  MT.  33. 

I  have  already  described  Craigenputtock  as  the  dreariest 
spot  in  all  the  British  dominions.  The  nearest  cottage  is 
more  than  a  mile  from  it ;  the  elevation,  700  feet  above 
the  sea,  stunts  the  trees  and  limits  the  garden  produce  to 
the  hardiest  vegetables.  The  house  is  gaunt  and  hungry- 
looking.  It  stands  with  the  scanty  fields  attached  as  an 
island  in  a  sea  of  morass.  The  landscape  is  unredeemed 
either  by  grace  or  grandeur,  mere  undulating  hills  of 
grass  and  heather,  with  peat  bogs  in  the  hollows  between 
them.  The  belts  of  firs  which  now  relieve  the  eye  and 
.  furnish  some  kind  of  shelter  were  scarcely  planted  when 
the  Carlyles  were  in  possession.  Ho  wonder  Mrs.  Carlyle 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  making  her  home  in  so  stern 
a  solitude,  delicate  as  she  was,  with  a  wreak  chest,  and 
with  the  fatal  nervous  disorder  of  which  she  eventually 
died  already  beginning  to  show  itself.  Yet  so  it  was  to 
be.  She  had  seen  the  place  in  March  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  and  then,  probably,  it  had  looked  its  very  worst. 
But  in  May,  when  they  came  to  settle,  the  aspect  would 
have  scarcely  been  mended.  The  spring  is  late  in  Scot¬ 
land  ;  on  the  high  moors  the  trees  are  still  bare.  The 
fields  are  scarcely  coloured  with  the  first  shoots  of  green, 
and  winter  lingers  in  the  lengthening  days  as  if  unwilling 
to  relax  its  grasp.  To  Mrs.  Carlyle  herself  the  adventure 
might  well  seem  desperate.  She  concealed  the  extent  of 
her  anxiety  from  her  husband,  though  not  entirely  from 
others.  Jeffrey  especially  felt  serious  alarm.  He  feared 


20 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

not  without  reason  that  Carlyle  was  too  much  occupied 
with  his  own  thoughts  to  be  trusted  in  such  a  situation 
with  the  charge  of  a  delicate  and  high-spirited  woman, 
who  would  not  spare  herself  in  the  hard  duties  of  her 
situation. 

The  decision  had  been  made,  however,  and  was  not  to 
he  reconsidered.  Jeffrey  could  only  hope  that  the  exile 
to  Siberia  would  be  of  short  duration.  When  the  furni¬ 
ture  at  Comely  Bank  was  packed  and  despatched,  he  in¬ 
vited  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  to  stay'  with  him  in  Moray 
Place,  while  the  carts  were  on  the  road.  After  two  days 
they  followed,  and  in  the  last  week  of  May  they  were  set 
down  at  the  door  of  the  house  which  was  now  to  be  their 
home.  The  one  bright  feature  in  the  situation  to  Carlyle 
was  the  continual  presence  of  his  brother  at  the  farm. 
The  cottage  in  which  Alexander  Carlyle  lived  wras  at¬ 
tached  to  the  premises ;  and  the  outdoor  establishment  of 
field,  stall,  and  dairy  servants  was  common  to  both  house¬ 
holds. 

^  ■« 

I  resume  the  letters. 


To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock  :  June  10,  1828. 

My  dear  Jack, — We  received  your  muck-longed-for  letter  two 
days  ago  before  leaving  Edinburgh  in  such  a  scene  of  chaotic  up¬ 
roar  as  I  had  never  witnessed,  and  do  earnestly  hojje  I  shall  never 
witness  again,  for  the  house  was  full  of  mats  and  deal  boxes  and 
straw  and  packthread,  and  there  was  a  wrapping  and  a  stitching 
and  a  hammering  and  tumbling ;  and  Alick  and  Jamie  came  with 
six  carts  to  take  away  our  goods ;  and  all  things  were  wrenched 
from  their  old  fixtures,  and  dispersed  and  scattered  asunder,  or 
united  only  by  a  common  element  of  dust  and  noise.  What  would 
the  sack  of  a  city  be,  when  the  dismantling  of  a  house  is  such ! 
From  all  packers  and  carpenters,  and  flittings  by  night  or  day, 
Good  Lord  deliver  us. 

I  have  waited  here  above  two  weeks  in  the  vain  hope  that  some 
calmness  would  supervene.  But  painters  and  joiners  still  deSe* 


21 


Early  Days  at  Craigenjpnitoch. 

crate  every  corner  of  onr  dwelling,  and  I  write  in  the  midst  of 
confusion  worse  confounded  as  better  than  not  writing  at  all. 

We  have  arrived  at  Craigenputtock  and  found  much  done,  but 
still  much  to  do ;  we  must  still  rush  and  run  with  carts  and  sad- 
dlehorses  to  Dumfries  every  second  day,  and  rejoice  when  we 
return  if  the  course  of  events  have  left  us  a  bed  to  sleep  on. 
However,  by  the  strength  of  men’s  heads  and  arms  a  mighty  im¬ 
provement  is  and  will  be  accomplished,  and  one  day  we  calculate 
a  quiet  house  must  stand  dry  and  clean  for  us  amid  this  wilder¬ 
ness  ;  and  the  philosopher  will  hoe  his  potatoes  in  peace  on  his 
own  soil,  and  none  to  make  him  afraid.  Had  we  -come  hither  out 
of  whim  one  might  have  sickened  and  grown  melancholy  over 
such  an  outlook  ;  but  wre  came  only  in  search  of  food  and  raiment, 
and  will  not  start  at  straws.  Away  then  with  Unmuth  mid  Ver- 
druss  !  Man  is  born  to  trouble  and  toil  as  the  sparks  fly  upwards. 
Let  him  toil,  therefore,  as  his  best  is,  and  make  no  noise  about  the 
matter.  Is  the  day  wearisome,  dusty,  and  full  of  midges  that  the 
galled  limbs  are  like  to  fail  ? 

Ein  guter  Abend  lcommt  herein, 

Wenn  ich  den  ganzen  Tag  gethan.  .  .  . 

Next  evening,  after  the  arrival  of  your  letter,  I  wrote  to  Messrs. 
Black  and  Young,  booksellers,  London  (of  the  ‘Foreign  Review ’), 
directing  them  to  pay  twenty  out  of  forty  pounds*whieh  they  had 
ordered  me  to  draw  on  them  for,  into  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Ran- 
some  &  Co.  to  be  paid  to  the  Baron  von  Eichthal  at  Munich.1  I 
hope  the  money  may  have  reached  you  by  this  time.  I  sent  these 
booksellers  a  long  paper  on  Goethe  for  their  next  still  unprinted 
number;  the  forty  pounds  was  for  an  essay  on  his  ‘Helena.’  I 
meant  to  send  them  another  piece  (on  the  life  of  Heyne)  for  this 
number ;  but  where  is  the  cunning  that  could  write  a  paper  here 
in  the  midst  of  uncreated  night  ?  But  I  am  getting  very  sick,  and 
must  leave  you  till  after  dinner,  and  go  sticJc  some  rows  of  peas 
which  are  already  flourishing  in  our  new  garden. 

.  .  .  Alas!  Jack,  there  is  no  sticking  of  peas  for  me  at  this 
hour,  the  cutting-tools  being  all  in  active  operation  elsewhere ;  so 
I  sit  down  to  talk  with  you  again,  still  impransus ,  though  in  bet¬ 
ter  health  than  I  was  an  hour  ago.  Indeed,  I  have  been  in  con¬ 
siderably  better  health  ever  Since  I  came  hither,  and  found  my  red 
chestnut  Irish  doctor  (though  ill)  saddled,  waiting  for  me  in  his 
stall.  By  degrees  I  do  think  I  shall  grow  as  sound  as  another 

1  With  whom  John  Carlyle  was  then  living. 


22 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

main ;  and  then,  when  the  German  doctor  is  settled  within  sight  of 
me  at  Dumfries,1  and  we  see  him  twice  a  week,  and  all  is  fixed  on 
its  own  footing,  will  not  times  be  brighter  than  they  have  been 
with  ns  ?  One  blessing  we  have  always  to  be  thankful  for- — unity 
and  brotherly  love,  which  makes  us,  though  a  struggling,  still  a 
united  family — and  are  we  not  all  spared  together  in  this  wonder¬ 
ful  existence  still  to  hope  as  we  struggle  ?  Let  us  ever  be  grate¬ 
ful  to  the  Giver  of  all  good,  and  struggle  onward  in  the  path  He 
directs.  Some  traces  of  our  presence  may  also  be  left  behind  us 
in  this  pilgrimage  of  life,  some  grains  added  to  the  great  pyramid 
of  human  endeavour.  What  more  has  man  to  wish  for  ? 

Of  the  Craig  o’  Putta  I  cannot  yet  rightly  speak  till  wTe  have 
seen  what  adjustment  matters  will  assume.  Hitherto,  to  say 
truth,  all  prospers  as  well  as  we  could  have  hoped.  The  house 
stands  heightened  and  white  with  rough  cast,  a  light  hewn  porch 
in  front  and  canns  on  the  chimney-lieads  ;  and  within  it  all  seems 
firm  and  sound.  During  summer,  as  we  calculate,  it  will  dry,  and 
the  smoke  wTe  have  reason  to  believe  is  now  pretty  wTell  subdued, 
so  that  on  this  side  some  satisfaction  is  to  be  looked  for.  W e  ap¬ 
pear  also  to  have  been  rather  lucky  in  our  servants.  An  active  maid 
came  with  us  from  Edinburgh.  A  dairy  woman,  also  of  good  omen, 
comes  to  us  to-morrow  from  Thornhill ;  and  a  good-humoured 
slut  of  a  byre-w7oman  was  retained  after  half  a  year’s  previous  trial. 
Then  w'e  have  twTo  sufficient  farming  men  and  a  bonneted  strip¬ 
ling  skilful  in  sheep,  from  this  glen.  Alick  himself  is  an  active 

little  fellow  as  ever  bent - ,  and  though  careworn  is  diligent, 

hearty,  and  compliant.  Pie  lives  in  his  little  room,  which  is  still 
but  half-furnished  like  the  rest  of  the  house.2 3 *  Mary  has  been 
visiting  at  Scotsbrig,  and  is  now  learning  to  sew  at  Dumfries. 
Jane  the  lesser  (Jean)  has  taken  her  place  here  and  furnishes  but¬ 
ter  and  afterings  ( jibbings ) 3  for  tea,  though  we  are  still  in  terrible 
want  of  a  cheeseboard,  and  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven  shall  get 
one  to-morrow  afternoon.  Jane  (the  greater)  is  surveying  all 
things,  proving  all  things,  that  she  may  hold  fast  to  what  is  good. 
She  watches  over  her  joiners  and  painters  with  an  eye  like  any 
hawk’s,  from  which  nothing  crooked,  unplumb  or  otherwise  ir¬ 
regular  can  hide  itself  a  moment.  And  then,  to  crown  our  felicity, 

1  John  Carlyle’s  present  intention. 

2  Not  yet  in  occupation  of  his  own  cottage. 

3Annandale  expressions,  meaning— what  ?  The  explanatory  word  itself 

requires  explaining. 


23 


Early  Days  at  CraAgenjpuUock. 

we  have  two  fowls  hatching  in  the  wood,  a  duck  with  twelve  eggs, 
and  a  hen  with  (if  I  mistake  not)  eleven,  from  which,  for  they  are 
properly  fed  and  cared  for,  great  things  are  expected.  Nay,  it  was 
but  these  three  nights  ago  that  we  slew  a  Highland  slot  and  salted 
him  in  a  barrel,  and  his  jyaddings  even  now  adorn  the  kitchen 
ceiling. 

From  Edinburgh  or  other  jieopled  quarters  of  the  world  1  have 
yet  heard  nothing.  We  left  Edward  Irving  there  preaching  like 
a  Boanerges,  with  (as  Henry  Xnglis  very  naively  remarked)  the 
town  divided  about  him,  ‘  one  party  thinking  that  he  was  quite 
mad,  another  that  he  was  an  entire  humbug.’  Eor  my  own  share 
I  would  not  be  intolerant  of  any  so  worthy  a  man  ;  but  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  if  Irving  is  on  the  road  to  truth,  it  is  no 
straight  one.  We  had  a  visit  from  him,  and  positively  there  does 
seem  a  touch  of  extreme  exaltation  in  him.  I  do  not  think  he  will 
go  altogether  mad,  yet  what  else  he  will  do  I  cannot  so  well  con¬ 
jecture.  Cant  and  enthusiasm  are  strangely  commingled  in  him. 
He  preaches  in  steamboats  and  all  open  places,  wears  clothes  of 
an  antique  cut  (his  waistcoat  has  flaps  or  tails  midway  down  the 
thigh)  and  in  place  of  ordinary  salutation  bids  ‘  the  Lord  bless 
you.’  I  hear  some  faint  rumour  of  liis  out-heroding  Herod  since 
wre  left  the  North,  but  we  have  not  yet  got  our  newspaper,  and  so 
know  nothing  positive.  So  ‘th  e  Laurt  bless  him!’  for  the  pres¬ 
ent,  and  if  you  pass  through  London  on  your  return,  you  are  en¬ 
gaged  to  go  and  see  him,  and,  I  think  he  said,  ‘  abide  with  him  ’ 
or  ‘  tarry  with  him  ’  on  your  way. 

The  last  two  nights  we  spent  in  Edinburgh  were  spent — where 
think  you  ?  In  the  house  of  Francis  Jeffrey,  surely  one  of  the 
kindest  little  men  I  have  ever  in  my  life  met  with.  He  and  his 
household  (wife  and  daughter)  have  positively  engaged  to  come 
and  pay  us  a  visit  here  this  very  summer  !  I  am  to  write  him  an 
article  on  Burns  as  well  as  on  Tasso.  But  alas,  alas  !  all  writing 
is  as  yet  far  from  my  hand.  Walter  Scott  I  did  not  see  because 
he  was  in  London  ;  nor  hear  of,  perhaps  because  he  was  a  busy  or 
uncourteous  man,  so  I  left  his  Goethe  medals  to  be  given  him  by 
Jeffrey.1  Lockhart  had  written  a  kind  of  ‘  Life  of  Burns,’  and 
men  in  general  were  making  another  uproar  about  Burns.  It  is 
this  book,  a  trivial  one  enough,  which  I  am  to  pretend  reviewing. 
Further,  except  continued  abuse  of  Leigh  Hunt  for  his  ‘  Lord 

1  They  had.  been  originally  entrusted  to  Wilson.  How  they  had  been  passed 
to  Jeffrey  I  do  not  know. 


24 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Byron,  and  some  of  his  Contemporaries,’  there  seemed  no  news  in 
the  literary  world,  or  rather  universe ;  for  was  there  ever  such  a 
world  as  it  has  grown  ? 

Be  steady  and  active  and  of  good  cheer,  my  dear  Doctor,  and 
come  home  and  live  beside  ns,  and  let  us  all  be  as  happy  as  we 
can. 

I  am  ever,  your  true  brother, 

T.  Caelyee. 

The  carpenters  and  plasterers  were  at  last  dismissed. 
Craigenputtock  became  tolerable,  if  not  yet  4  cosmic,’  and 
as  soon  as  all  was  quiet  again,  Carlyle  settled  himself  to 
work.1  Tasso  was  abandoned,  or  at  least  postponed,  but 

1  It  was  now  that  the  ‘  bread  ’  problem  had  to  be  encountered,  of  which 
Miss  Jewsbury  speaks  in  her  ‘  Recollections  of  Mrs.  Carlyle.’  Carlyle  could 
not  eat  such  bread  as  the  Craigenputtock  servants  could  bake  for  him,  or  as 
could  be  bought  at  Dumfries,  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  to  make  it  herself.  Miss 
Smith,  an  accomplished  lady  living  at  Carlisle,  has  kindly  sent  me  a  letter  in 
which  the  story  is  characteristically  told  by  Mrs.  Carlyle  herself.  It  is 
dated  January  11,  1857 — after  an  interval  of  nearly  thirty  years.  Mrs.  Carlyle 
writes  : — • 

‘  So  many  talents  are  wasted,  so  many  enthusiasms  turned  to  smoke,  so 
many  lives  split  for  want  of  a  little  patience  and  endurance,  for  want  of 
understanding  and  laying  to  heart  what  you  have  so  well  expressed  in  your 
verses — the  meaning  of  the  Present — for  want  of  recognising  that  it  is  not  the 
greatness  or  littleness  of  “the  duty  nearest  hand,”  but  the  spirit  in  which 
one  does  it,  that  makes  one’s  doing  noble  or  mean.  I  can’t  think  how  people 
who  have  any  natural  ambition  and  any  sense  of  power  in  them  escape  going 
mad  in  a  world  like  this  without  the  recognition  of  that.  I  know  I  was 
very  near  mad  when  I  found  it  out  for  myself  (as  one  has  to  find  out  for 
oneself  everything  that  is  to  be  of  any  real  practical  use  to  one). 

‘  Shall  I  tell  you  how  it  came  into  my  head  ?  Perhaps  it  may  be  of  comfort 
to  you  in  similar  moments  of  fatigue  and  disgust.  I  had  gone  with  my  hus¬ 
band  to  live  on  a  little  estate  of  peat  bog  that  had  descended  to  me  all  the  way 
down  from  John  Welsh  the  Covenanter,  who  married  a  daughter  of  John 
Knox.  That  didn’t,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  make  me  feel  Craigenputtock  a 
whit  less  of  a  peat  bog,  and  a  most  dreary,  untoward  place  to  live  at.  In  fact, 
it  was  sixteen  miles  distant  on  every  side  from  all  the  conveniences  of  life, 
shops,  and  even  post  office.  Further,  we  were  very  poor,  and  further  and 
worst,  being  an  only  child,  and  brought  up  to  “great  prospects,”  I  was  sub¬ 
limely  ignorant  of  every  branch  of  useful  knowledge,  though  a  capital  Latin 
scholar,  and  very  fair  mathematician  !  !  It  behoved  me  in  these  astonishing 
circumstances  to  learn  to  sew  !  Husbands,  I  wras  shocked  to  find,  wore  their 
stockings  into  holes,  and  were  always  losing  buttons,  and  /  was  expected  to 
“look  to  all  that ;  ”  also  it  behoved  me  to  learn  to  cook!  no  capable  servant 


Essay  on  Burns. 


25 


the  article  on  Burns  was  written — not  so  ungraciously,  so 
far  as  regarded  Lockhart,  as  the  epithet  4 trivial’  which 
had  been  applied  to  his  book  might  have  foreboded.  But 
it  is  rather  on  Burns  himself  than  on  his  biographer’s  ac¬ 
count  of  him  that  Carlyle’s  attention  was  concentrated.  It 
is  one  of  the  very  best  of  his  essays,  and  was  composed 
with  an  evidently  peculiar  interest,  because  the  outward 
circumstances  of  Burns’s  life,  his  origin,  his  early  sur¬ 
roundings,  his  situation  as  a  man  of  genius  born  in  a  farm¬ 
house  not  many  miles  distant,  among  the  same  people  and 
the  same  associations  as  were  so  familiar  to  himself,  could 
not  fail  to  make  him  think  often  of  himself  while  he  was 
writing  about  his  countryman.  How  this  article  was  judged 
by  the  contemporary  critics  will  be  presently  seen.  For 

choosing  to  live  at  such  an  out-of-the-way  place,  and  my  husband  having  bad 
digestion,  which  complicated  my  difficulties  dreadfully.  The  bread ,  above  all, 
brought  from  Dumfries,  “soured  on  his  stomach  ”  (oh  Heaven  !),  and  it  was 
plainly  my  duty  as  a  Christian  wife  to  bake  at  home.  So  I  sent  for  Cobbett’s 
Cottage  Economy ,  and  fell  to  work  at  a  loaf  of  bread.  But  knowing  nothing 
about  the  process  of  fermentation  or  the  heat  of  ovens,  it  came  to  pass  that 
my  loaf  got  put  into  the  oven  at  the  time  that  myself  ought  to  have  been  put 
into  bed  ;  and  I  remained  the  only  person  not  asleep  in  a  house  in  the  middle  of 
a  desert.  One  o’clock  struck,  and  then  two,  and  then  three  ;  and  still  I  was  sit¬ 
ting  there  in  an  immense  solitude,  my  whole  body  aching  with  weariness,  my 
heart  aching  with  a  sense  of  forlornness  and  degradation.  That  I,  who  had  been 
so  petted  at  home,  whose  comfort  had  been  studied  by  everybody  in  the  house, 
who  had  never  been  required  to  do  anything  but  cultivate  my  mind ,  should 
have  to  pass  all  those  hours  of  the  night  in  watching  a  loaf  of  bread — which 
mightn’t  turn  out  bread  after  all !  Such  thoughts  maddened  me,  till  I  laid  down 
my  head  on  the  table  and  sobbed  aloud.  It  was  then  that  somehow  the  idea 
of  Benvenuto  Cellini  sitting  up  all  night  watching  his  Perseus  in  the  furnace 
came  into  my  head,  and  suddenl3r  I  asked  myself  :  “  After  all,  in  the  sight  of 
the  Upper  Powers,  what  is  the  mighty  difference  between  a  statue  of  Perseus 
and  a  loaf  of  bread,  so  that  each  be  the  thing  one’s  hand  has  found  to  do  ? 
The  man’s  determined  will,  his  energy,  his  patience,  his  resource,  were  the 
really  admirable  things  of  which  his  statue  of  Perseus  was  the  mere  chance 
expression.  If  he  had  been  a  woman  living  at  Craigenputtock,  with  a  dys¬ 
peptic  husband,  sixteen  miles  from  a  baker,  and  he  a  bad  one,  all  these  same 
qualities  would  have  come  out  more  fitly  in  a  good  loaf  of  bread. 

‘  I  cannot  express  what  consolation  this  germ  of  an  idea  spread  over  my  un¬ 
congenial  life  during  the  years  we  lived  at  that  savage  place,  where  my  two 
immediate  predecessors  had  gone  mad ,  and  the  third  had  taken  to  drink.  ’ 


26 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle'. 

liimself,  it  is  too  plain  that  before  he  came  to  the  end  of 
it  the  pastoral  simplicities  of  the  moorland. had  not  cured 
Carlyle  of  his  humours  and  hypochondrias.  lie  had  ex¬ 
pected  that  change  of  scene  would  enable  him  to  fling  off 
his  shadow.  His  shadow  remained  sticking  to  him ;  and 
the  poor  place  where  he  had  cast  his  lot  had  as  usual  to 
hear  the  blame  of  his  disappointment.  In  his  diary  there 
stands  a  note :  c  Finished  a  paper  on  Burns,  September 
16,  1828,  at  this  Devil’s  Den,  Craigenputtockd 

Meanwhile,  though  he  complained  of  hearing  little  from 
the  world  outside,  his  friends  had  not  forgotten  him. 
Letters  came  by  the  carrier  from  Dumfries,  and  the  Satur¬ 
day’s  post  was  the  event  of  the  week.  Jeffrey  especially 
was  affectionate  and  assiduous.  He  reproached  Carlyle 
for  not  writing  to  him,  complained  of  being  so  soon  for¬ 
gotten,  and  evidently  wished  to  keep  his  friend  as  close  to 
him  as  possible.  The  papers  on  German  literature  had 
brought  a  pamphlet  upon  J  effrey  about  Kant,  from  ‘  some 
horrid  German  blockhead  ;  ’  but  he  was  patient  under  the 
affliction  and  forgav**^ie,£|iuse.  Ti^ug’^Collegedmd  b^m* 
set  on  foot  in  London  on  orthodox  prn^pl^sfurmt^’Hnm 
patronage  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  the  bishops. 
He  offered  to  recommend  Carlyle  to  them  as  Professor  of 
Mysticism ;  although  mysticism  itself  he  said  he  should 
like  less  than  ever  if  it  turned  such  a  man  as  Carlyle  into 
a  morbid  misanthrope,  which  seemed  to  be  its  present  ef¬ 
fect.  Sir  Walter  had  received  his  medals  and  had  ac¬ 
knowledged  them ;  had  spoken  of  Goethe  as  his  master, 
and  had  said  civil  things  of  Carlyle,  which  was  more  than 
he  had  deserved.  Jeffrey  cautioned  Carlyle  to  be  careful 
of  the  delicate  companion  who  had  been  trusted  to  him ; 
offered  his  services  in  any  direction  in  which  he  could  be 
of  use,  and  throughout,  and  almost  weekly,  sent  to  one  or 
other  of  the  ‘  hermits  ’  some  note  or  letter,  short  or  long, 
but  always  sparkling,  airy,  and  honestly  affectionate.  I 


27 


Letter  from  Charles  Butler. 


am  sorry  that  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  print  these  letters  in 
extenso ;  for  they  would  show  that  Jeffrey  had  a  genuine 
regard  and  admiration  for  Carlyle,  which  was  never  com¬ 
pletely  appreciated.  It  was  impossible  from  their  rela¬ 
tive  positions  that  there  should  not  he  at  least  an  appear¬ 
ance  of  patronage  on  Jeffrey’s  part.  The  reader  has 
probably  discovered  that  Carlyle  was  proud,  and  proud 
men  never  wholly  forgive  those  to  whom  they  feel  them¬ 
selves  obliged. 


Late  in  the  summer  there  came  a  letter  from  the  young 
Charles  Buffer,  now  grown  to  intellectual  manhood,  and 
thinking  about  entering  public  life.  He  and  his  old  tutor 
had  not  forgotten  each  other.  Carlyle  had  watched  him 
through  Cambridge,  and  had  written  to  caution  him  against 
certain  forms  of  Liberal  opinion  towards  which  Mrs. 
Strachey  had  seen  witli  alarm  that  her  brilliant  nephew 
was  tending.  Buffer  replies : — 


To  Thomas  Carlyle. 

August  31,  1828. 

I  can  hardly  say  I  feel  sorry  for  your  clisapp ointment  respecting 
St.  Andrews  and  the  London  University,  since  you  seem  to  have 
"been  utterly  careless  of  success.  The  former  I  suppose  went  al¬ 
most  solely  by  ministerial  influence  ;  and  as  my  father  has  not 
quite  arrived  at  the  degree  of  Toryism  and  baseness  which  would 
make  a  man  support  the  Duke  of  Wellington’s  Government,  he 
could  hardly  have  done  any  good  in  that  way.  You  have,  I  see, 
left  Edinburgh.  Which  and  where  is  the  awfully  cacophonious 
place  where  you  have  taken  up  your  residence?  I  would  venture 
to  hint  that  you  have  kept  a  perplexing  silence  respecting  the 
posture  of  your  present  life. 

I  see  the  London  University  allows  people  to  give  lectures  in 
some  manner  of  connection  with  them  without  being  appointed 
by  them.  Suppose  you  were  to  propose  to  give  lectures  on  Ger¬ 
man  literature  and  philosophy,  I  should  think  you  would  get  an 
innumerable  quantity  of  pupils.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  new 
‘  King’s  College’  is  closed  to  all  teachers  byM.A.’s  and  Reverends. 
If  not,  I  should  think  you  might  possibly  stand  a  good  chance  of 
getting  some  appointment  there,  and  it  would  certainly  be  a  great 


28  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

thing  to  have  one  person  in  that  establishment  who  knows  any* 
thing  beyond  that  slender  and  antique  lore  which  the  two  vener¬ 
able  Universities  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  impart  to  their  Sieves. 
But  I  only  mention  this,  for  I  am  utterly  ignorant  whether  this 
new  King’s  College  is  to  teach  anything  beyond  loyalty  and 
Church  of  Englandarianism,  or  to  have  any  teachers  except  a 
Greek  and  Latin  lecturer,  and  perhaps  one  in  Divinity  to  explain 
the  Catechism.  But  if  you  think  it  worth  while  I  would  obtain 
information  from  the  Bishop  of  Llandaff,  who  is  the  best  of  the 
people  who  have  anything  to  do  with  it. 

We  forwarded  your  letter  to  Mrs.  Strachey,  who  I  dare  say  will 
not  have  acknowledged  it,  because  she  has  just  had  the  misfortune 
of — a  tenth  child.  We  have  some  expectation  of  seeing  Miss  Kirk¬ 
patrick  soon,  but  she  is  in  great  trouble.  Her  brother  William, 
perhaps  you  already  know,  died  in  May  after  a  lingering  and  pain¬ 
ful  illness.  His  poor  young  wife  has  gone  mad,  and  Kitty,  after 
all  this,  has  been  involved  in  a  very  wearisome  and  distressing 
dispute  with  Mrs.  Kirkpatrick’s  sister  respecting  the  care  of  her 
brother’s  children. 

And  now  I  refer  once  more  to  what  you  said  in  your  letter  to 
me  about  myself.  You  seem  to  hope  that  my  Utilitarianism  and 
blankness  in  religion  will  not  last  long.  If  they  are  wrong,  that 
is,  not  a  true  conclusion  of  my  reason,  I  hope  that  I  may  abandon 
them,  and  that  soon.  But  I  have  adopted  Utilitarianism  because 
I  think  it  affords  the  best  explanation  of  men’s  opinions  on  morals, 
and  because  on  it  may  be  built,  I  think,  the  best  framework  on 
which  we  may  form  and  instruct  the  natural  feelings  of  men  to  do 
that  which  produces  peace  and  good  will  among  them. 

I  think,  moreover,  that  the  doctrines  of  the  Utilitarians,  whether 
promulgated  under  that  name  or  under  others,  have  already  done 
no  little  good  in  shaming  the  world  out  of  some  of  its  worst  theo¬ 
ries  of  right  and  wrong  respecting  most  important  matters  of  prac¬ 
tice.  That  many  of  the  Utilitarians  are  grossly  intolerant  I  am 
very  ready  to  admit.  But  is  not  this  the  invariable  concomitant 
(except  in  the  very  first  geniuses)  of  zeal  for  the  truth  ?  and  es¬ 
pecially  so  when  men  have,  like  the  Utilitarians,  to  keep  their  new 
principles  by  mam  force  of  logic  against  the  intolerance  of  the 
stupid  champions  of  orthodoxy,  and  the  general  disfavour  even  of 
the  better  and  wiser  part  of  the  community  ? 

With  regard  to  my  blankness  in  religion — you  call  by  a  mild 
name  a  set  of  opinions  to  which  men  usually  attach  a  name  that 


Article  on  Burns. 


29 


burns  worse  than  Inquisitor’s  fire  and  faggot — I  have  fixed  myself  in 
that,  because  I  have  not  yet  found  that  faith  which  I  could  believe, 
and  none  among  the  creeds  of  this  world  that  I  could  wish  to  be 
true.  I  could  picture  to  myself  a  bright  creed  truly  ;  but  to  think 
that  it  could  be  real  because  it  was  pretty  would  be  childish  indeed. 

But  my  steed  awaits  me. 

Believe  me,  ever  yours  sincerely, 

Charles  Buller. 

July  this  year  had  been  intensely  hot.  Jeffrey  had  com¬ 
plained  of  being  stiffed  in  the  courts,  and  for  the  moment 
had  actually  envied  his  friends  their  cool  mountain  breezes. 
The  heat  had  been  followed  in  August  by  rain.  It  had 
been  ‘the  wettest,  warmest  summer  ever  known.’  Alex¬ 
ander  Carlyle  had  been  living  hitherto  with  his  brother, 
the  cottage  which  he  was  to  occupy  with  one  of  his  sisters 
not  being  yet  ready.  The  storms  had  delayed  the  masons  ; 
while  the  article  on  Burns  was  being  written  the  premises 
were  still  littered  with  dirt,  and  Carlyle’s  impatience  with 
small  misfortunes  perhaps  had  inspired  the  unpleasant 
epithet  of  Devil’s  Den  with  which  he  had  already  chris¬ 
tened  his  home.  He  appears  to  have  remained,  however, 
in  a — for  him— tolerable  humour. 

To  John  Carlyle . 

August  25,  1828. 

In  this  mansion  we  have  had  a  battle  like  that  of  St.  George  and 
the  Dragon.  Neither  are  we  yet  conquerors.  Smoke  and  wet  and 
chaos.  The  first  we  have  subdued  ;  the  last  two  we  are  subduing. 
May  the  Lord  keep  all  Christian  men  from  flitting. 

As  to  literature,  which  also  is  bread-making,  I  have  done  noth¬ 
ing  since  Whitsunday  but  a  shortish  paper  on  Heyne  1  for  the  ‘  For¬ 
eign  Review,’  which  will  appear  in  No.  4.  A  long  article  on  Goethe 
is  just  publishing  in  No.  3, 2  which  has  been,  for  want  of  cash,  I 
believe,  exceedingly  delayed  ;  and  at  this  very  date  I  am  very  busy, 
and  third  part  done,  with  a  ‘  fair,  full,  and  free  ’  essay  on  Burns 
for  the  ‘  Edinburgh  Review.’  None  can  say  how  bilious  I  am,  and 

1  Miscellanies ,  vol.  ii.  p.  75. 


3  Ibid.,  vol.  i.  p.  233. 


30 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

am  like  to  be;  but  I  have  begun  to  ride  daily  on  Larry,1  and  so 
Jeffrey  shall  have  his  article  at  the  appointed  time.  That  wonder¬ 
ful  little  man  is  expected  here  very  soon  with  Weib  und  Kind.  He 
takes  no  little  interest  in  us,  writes  often,  and  half  hates,  half 
loves  me  with  the  utmost  sincerity.  Nay,  he  even  offers  me  in 
the  coolest,  lightest  manner  the  use  of  his  purse,  and  evidently 
rather  wishes  I  would  use  it.  Proh  I)eum  atqne  hominum  fidem  ! 
This  from  a  Scotchman  and  lawyer !  Jane  is  in  considerable 
trepidation  getting  the  house  fully  equipped  for  these  august 
visitors.  Surely  I  think  she  will  succeed.  Nay,  already  we  are 
very  smart.  Here  is  a  drawing-room  with  Goethe’s  picture  in  it, 
and  a  piano,  and  the  finest  papering  on  the  walls ;  and  I  write 
even  now  behind  it,  in  my  own  little  library,  out  of  which  truly  I 
can  see  nothing  but  a  barn-roof,  tree  tops,  and  empty  hay- carts, 
and  under  it  perhaps  a  stagnant  midden,  cock  with  hens,  overfed 
or  else  dazed  with  wet  and  starvation ;  but  within  which  I  may  see 
a  clear  fire  (of  peats  and  Sanquhar  coals),  with  my  desk  and  books 
and  every  accoutrement  I  need  in  fairest  order.  Shame  befall  me 
if  I  ought  to  complain,  except  it  be  of  my  own  stupidity  and  pusil¬ 
lanimity.  Unhappily  we  still  want  a  front  door  road,  and  the  lawn 
is  mostly  a  quagmire. 

Several  weeks  ago  I  had  a  long  letter  from  Goethe 2  enclosing 
another  from  Dr.  Eckermann,  his  secretary,  full  of  commendations 
and  congratulations  about  my  criticism  of  his  ‘  Helena.’  I  ought  X 
to  have  written  to  him  long  ago,  but  cannot  and  must  not,  till  I 
have  done  with  Burns,  If  you  pass  within  any  manageable  dis¬ 
tance  of  Weimar  you  will  surely  wait  on  this  sage  man.  Seriously, 

I  venerate  such  a  person  considerably  more  not  only  than  any 
king  or  emperor,  but  than  any  man  that  handles  never  so  expertly 
the  tools  of  kings  and  emperors.  iSein  Excellenz  already  knows 
you  by  name,  and  will  welcome  you  in  his  choicest  mood. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  horrible  accident  at  Kirkcaldy?  Irving 
was  going  to  preach  there,  and  the  kirk  fell  and  killed  eight  and 
twenty  persons.  ‘What  think’st  a  he  means,’  said  my  father, 

‘  gawn  up  and  down  the  country  tevelling  and  screeching  like  a 
wild  bear?’  Heaven  only  knows  completely.  Walter  Welsh 
wonders  they  do  not  ‘  lay  him  up.’  I  add  no  more. 

Your  brother,  T.  Carlyle. 

1  The  Irish  horse  of  ‘genius,’  who  hacl  thrown  him  at  Hoddam  Hill. 

2 1  find  no  copy  of  this  letter.  The  original  appears  to  be  lost  among  the 
rest. 


Editor  and  Contributor . 


31 


The  Jeffreys  were  to  have  come  in  September,  while 
the  weather  was  still  fine,  but  they  had  gone  first  to  the 
western  Highlands,  and  their  visit  was  put  off  till  the  next 
month.  Meanwhile  the  article  on  Burns  had  been  sent 
off,  and  before  the  appearance  of  the  visitors  at  Craigen- 
puttock  a  sharp  altercation  had  commenced  between  the 
editor  and  his  contributor  on  certain  portions  of  it,  which 
was  not  easily  ended.  On  the  article  itself  the  world  has 
pronounced  a  more  than  favourable  verdict.  Goethe  con¬ 
sidered  it  so  excellent  that  he  translated  long  passages  from 
it,  and  published  them  in  his  collected  works ; 1  but,  as 
Goethe  had  observed  about  Schiller,  contemporaries  always 
stumble  at  first  over  the  writings  of  an  original  man.  The 
novelty  seems  like  presumption.  The  editor  of  the  6  Edin¬ 
burgh  Review  ’  found  the  article  long  and  diffuse,  though 
he  did  not  deny  that  ‘  it  contained  much  beauty  and  felic¬ 
ity  of  diction.’  Tie  insisted  that  it  must  be  cut  down — 
cut  down  perhaps  to  half  its  dimensions.  He  was  vexed 
with  Carlyle  for  standing,  as  he  supposed,  in  his  own 
light,  misusing  his  talents  and  throwing  away  his  pros¬ 
pects.  He  took  the  opportunity  of  reading  him  a  general 
lecture. 

6  I  suppose,’  he  said,  ‘  that  you  will  treat  me  as  some¬ 
thing  worse  than  an  ass  when  I  say  that  I  am  firmly  per¬ 
suaded  the  great  source  of  your  extravagance,  and  of  all 
that  makes  your  writings  intolerable  to  many  and  ridicu¬ 
lous  to  not  a  few,  is  not  so  much  any  real  peculiarity  of 
opinions,  as  an  unlucky  ambition  to  appear  more  original 
than  you  are,  or  the  humbler  and  still  more  delusive  hope 
of  converting;  our  English  intellects  to  the  creed  of  Ger- 

o  o  t 

many  and  being  the  apostle  of  another  Reformation.  I 
wish  to  God  I  could  persuade  you  to  fling  away  these  af¬ 
fectations,  and  be  contented  to  write  like  your  famous 
countrymen  of  all  ages:  as  long  at  least  as  you  write  to 

1  Goethe’s  Works,  vol.  xxxiii.  pp,  181  et  seq. 


32 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

your  countrymen  and  for  them.  The  nationality  for  which 
you  commend  Burns  so  highly  might  teach  you,  I  think, 
that  there  are  nobler  tasks  for  a  man  like  you  than  to  vamp 
up  the  vulgar  dreams  of  these  Dousterswivels  you  are  so 
anxious  to  cram  down  our  throats  ;  but  which  I  venture  to 
predict  no  good  judge  among  us  will  swallow,  and  the 
nation  at  large  speedily  reject  with  loathing.’ 

So  spoke  the  great  literary  authority  of  the  day.  The 
adventurous  Prince  who  would  win  the  golden  water  on 
the  mountain’s  crest  is  always  assailed  by  cries  that  he  is 
a  fool  and  must  turn  back,  from  the  enchanted  stones 
which  litter  the  track  on  which  he  is  ascending.  They 
too  have  once  gone  on  the  same  quest.  They  have 
wanted  faith,  and  are  become  blocks  of  rock  echoing  com¬ 
monplaces  ;  and  if  the  Prince  turns  his  head  to  listen  to 
them,  he  too  becomes  as  they.  Jeffrey  tried  to  sweeten 
his  admonitions  by  compliments  on  the  article  upon 
Goethe  ;  but  here  too  he  soon  fell  to  scolding.  6  Though 
I  admire,’  he  said,  6  the  talent  of  your  paper,  I  am  more 
and  more  convinced  of  the  utter  fallacy  of  your  opinions 
and  the  grossness  of  your  idolatry.  I  predict  too,  with 
full  and  calm  assurance,  that  your  cause  is  hopeless,  and 
that  England  never  will  admire,  nor  indeed  endure,  your 
German  divinities.  It  thinks  better  and  more  of  them 
indeed  than  it  ever  will  again.  Your  eloquence  and  in¬ 
genuity  a  little  mask  their  dull  extravagance  and  tiresome 
presumption.  As  soon  as  they  appear  in  their  own  per¬ 
sons  everybody  will  laugh.  I  am  anxious  to  save  you 
from  this  foeda  super stitio.  The  only  harm  it  has  yet 
done  you  is  to  make  you  a  little  verbose  and  prone  to  ex¬ 
aggeration.  There  are  strong  symptoms  of  both  in  your 
Burns.  I  have  tried  to  staunch  the  first,  but  the  latter  is 
in  the  grain,  and  we  must  just  risk  the  wonder  and  the 
ridicule  it  may  bring  on  us.’ 

This  was  not  merely  the  protest  of  an  editor,  but  the 


33 


Visit  from  the  Jeffreys. 

reproach,  of  a  sincere  friend.  Jeffrey  ardently  desired  to 
recommend  Carlyle  and  to  help  him  forward  in  the  world. 
For  Carlyle’s  own  sake,  and  still  more  for  the  sake  of  his 
young  and  delicate  relative,  he  was  vexed  and  irritated 
that  he  should  have  buried  himself  at  Craigenputtock. 
Fie  imagined,  and  in  a  certain  sense  with  justice,  that 
Carlyle  looked  on  himself  as  the  apostle  of  a  new  faith  (to 
a  clever  man  of  the  world  the  most  absurd  and  provoking 
of  illusions),  which  the  solitude  of  the  moors  only  tended 
to  encourage. 

With  October  the  promised  visit  wTas  accomplished. 
Flow  he  came  with  Mrs.  Jeffrey  and  his  daughter,  how 
the  big  carriage  stood  wondering  how  it  had  got  there  in 
the  rough  farm-yard,  how  Carlyle  and  be  rode  about  the 
country,  with  what  astonishment  he  learnt  that  his  dinner 
had  been  cooked  for  him  by  his  hostess’s  own  hands,  how 
he  delighted  them  all  in  the  evenings  with  his  brilliant 
anecdotes  and  mimicries — all  this  has  been  told  elsewhere 
and  need  not  be  repeated.  Those  two  days  were  a  sunny 
island  in  the  general  dreariness,  an  Indian  summer  before 
winter  cut  the  Carlyles  off  from  the  outside  world  and 
wTrapped  them  round  with  snow  and  desolation.  During 
the  greater  part  of  the  Jeffreys’  stay  controverted  subjects 
were  successfully  avoided.  But  Carlyle’s  talk  had  none 
the  less  provoked  Jeffrey.  He  himself,  with  a  spiritual 
creed  which  sat  easy  on  him,  believed  nevertheless  that  it 
was  the  business  of  a  sensible  man  to  make  his  way  in  the 
world,  use  his  faculties  to  practical  purposes,  and  provide 
for  those  who  were  dependent  upon  him.  IFe  saw  his 
friend  given  over  as  he  supposed  to  a  self-delusion  which 
approached  near  to  foolish  vanity,  to  have  fallen  in  love 
with  clouds  like  Ixion,  and  to  be  begetting  chimseras 
which  he  imagined  to  be  divine  truths.  All  this  to  a  clear 
practical  intelligence  like  that  of  Jeffrey  was  mere  non¬ 
sense,  and  on  the  last  night  of  his  stay  he  ended  a  long 
VOL.  II.— 3 


34 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


argument  in  a  tone  of  severe  reproach  for  which  he  felt 
himself  afterwards  obliged  to  apologise.  Iiis  excuse,  if 
excuse  was  needed,  was  a  genuine  anxiety  for  Carlyle’s 
welfare,  and  an  equal  alarm  for  his  wife,  whose  delicacy, 
like  enough,  her  husband  was  too  much  occupied  with  his 
own  thoughts  to  consider  sufficiently.  ‘I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  think,’  he  said  in  a  letter  which  he  wrote  after 
he  had  left  them,  ‘that  either  you  or  Mrs.  Carlyle  are 
naturally  placed  at  Craigenputtock ;  and  though  I  know 
and  reverence  the  feelings  which  have  led  you  to  fix  there 
for  the  present,  1  must  hope  it  will  not  be  long  necessary 
to  obey  them  in  that  retreat.  I  dare  not  advise,  and  do 
not  even  know  very  well  what  to  suggest  to  a  mind  so 
constituted  as  yours  ;  but  I  shall  be  proud  to  give  you  my 
views  upon  anything  that  occurs  to  yourself,  and  pray 
understand  that  few  things  in  this  world  can  give  me 
more  gratification  than  being  able  to  be  of  any  serious  use 
to  you.  Take  care  of  the  fair  creature  who  has  trusted 
herself  so  entirely  to  you.  Do  not  let  her  ride  about  in 
the  wet,  nor  expose  herself  to  the  wintry  winds  that  will 
by-and-by  visit  your  lofty  retreat ;  and  think  seriously  of 
taking  shelter  in  Moray  Place 1  for  a  month  or  two,  and 
in  the  meantime  be  gay  and  playful  and  foolish  with  her, 
at  least  as  often  as  you  require  her  to  be  wise  and  heroic 
with  you.  You  have  no  mission  upon  earth,  whatever 
you  may  fancy,  half  so  important  as  to  be  innocently 
happy — and  all  that  is  good  for  you  of  poetic  feeling  and 
sympathy  with  majestic  nature  will  come  of  its  own  ac¬ 
cord  without  your  straining  after  it.  That  is  my  creed, 
and  right  or  wrong  I  am  sure  it  is  both  a  simpler  and  a 
humbler  one  than  yours.’ 

The  trouble  with  the  article  on  Burns  was  not  over. 
Jeffrey,  as  editor,  had  to  consider  the  taste  of  the  great 

1  Jeffrey’s  house  in  Edinburgh. 


The  Article  on  Turns . 


35 


Liberal  party  in  literature  and  politics,  and  to  disciples  of 
Bentham,  as  indeed  to  the  average  reader  of  any  political 
persuasion,  Carlyle’s  views  were  neither  welcome  nor  intel  ¬ 
ligible.  When  the  proof  sheets  came,  he  found  £  the  first 
part  cut  all  into  shreds — the  body  of  a  quadruped  with  the 
head  of  a  bird,  a  man  shortened  by  cutting  out  his  thighs 
and  fixing  the  knee-caps  on  the  hips.’  Carlyle  refused  to 
let  it  appear  ‘in  such  a  horrid  shape.’  He  replaced  the 
most  important  passages,  and  returned  the  sheets  with  an 
intimation  that  the  paper  might  be  cancelled,  but  should 
not  be  mutilated.  Few  editors  would  have  been  so  for¬ 
bearing  as  Jeffrey  wdien  so  audaciously  defied.  He  com¬ 
plained,  but  he  acquiesced.  He  admitted  that  the  article 
would  do  the  He  view  credit,  though  it  would  be  called 
tedious  and  sprawliug  by  people  of  weight  whose  mouths 
he  could  have  stopped.  He  had  wished  to  be  of  use  to 
Carlyle  by  keeping  out  of  sight  in  the  Review  his  manner¬ 
ism  and  affectation  ;  but  if  Carlyle  persisted  he  might  have 
his  way. 

Carlyle  was  touched;  such  kindness  was  more  than  he 
had  looked  for.  The  proud  self-assertion  was  followed  by 
humility  and  almost  penitence,  and  the  gentle  tone  in 
which  he  wrote  conquered  Jeffrey  in  turn.  Jeffrey  said 
that  he  admired  and  approved  of  Carlyle’s  letter  to  him  in 
all  aspects.  ‘  The  candour  and  sweet  blood  ’  which  was 
shown  in  it  deserved  the  highest  praise;  and,  as  the  dying 
pagan  said  in  the  play,  ‘  If  these  are  Christian  virtues  1  am 
a  Christian,’  so  Jeffrey,  hating  as  he  did  what  he  called 
Carlyle’s  mysticism,  was  ready  to  exclaim,  if  these  were 
mystic  virtues  he  wTas  mystic.  4  But  your  virtues  are  your 
own,’  he  said,  6  and  you  possess  them  not  in  consequence  of 
your  mysticism,  but  in  spite  of  it.  You  shall  have  any¬ 
thing  you  like.  I  cannot  chaffer  with  such  a  man,  or  do 
anything  to  vex  him;  and  you  shall  write  mysticism  for 


36 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

me  if  it  will  not  be  otherwise,  and  I  will  print  it  too  at  all 
hazards  with  very  few  and  temperate  corrections.  I  think 
you  have  a  great  deal  of  eloquence  and  talent,  and  might  do 

considerable  things  if -  But  no  matter ;  I  will  not  tire 

of  you  ;  after  all,  I  believe  there  are  many  more  things  as 
to  which  wre  agree  than  about  which  we  differ,  and  the 
difference  is  not  radical,  but  formal  chiefly.5 


CHAPTER  III. 

A.D.  1829.  JET.  34. 


So  the  winter  settled  down  over  Craigenpnttock.  The 
weekly  cart  struggled  up  when  possible  from  Dumfries 
with  letters  and  parcels,  but  storms  and  rain  made  the 
communications  more  and  more  difficult.  Old  James  Car¬ 
lyle  came  over  from  Scotsbrig  for  a  week  after  the  Jeffreys 
went,  an  Edinburgh  friend  followed  for  three  days  more, 
and  after  that  few  faces  save  those  of  their  own  household 
were  seen  at  the  Carlyles’  door.  Happily  for  him  he  was 
fully  employed.  The  ‘ Foreign  Review’ and  the  4 Edin¬ 
burgh  ’  gave  him  as  much  work  as  he  could  do.  He  had 
little  need  of  money ;  Scotsbrig  supplied  him  with  wheat 
flour  and  oatmeal,  and  the  farm  with  milk  and  eggs  and 
hams  and  poultry.  There  was  little  that  needed  buying 
save  tea  and  sugar  and  tobacco ;  and  his  finances  (for  his 
articles  were  long  and  handsomely  paid  for)  promised  for 
a  time  to  be  on  an  easy  footing  in  spite  of  the  constant  ex¬ 
penses  of  his  brother  John  at  Munich.  There  were  two 
horses  in  the  stable — Larry,  the  Irish  horse  of  4  genius,’ 
and  Harry,  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  pony.1  In  fine  weather  they 

1  Carlyle  told  me  a  story  of  these  two  horses,  illustrative  of  the  sense  of 
humour  in  animals.  I  cannot  date  it  either  by  day  or  year,  and  therefore  I 
give  it  in  a  note.  They  had  a  vicious  old  sow,  who  was  the  tyrant  and  the 
terror  of  the  farm-yard.  One  day  Carlyle  was  smoking  his  pipe  outside  his 
front  door,  when  he  heard  shrieks  of  rage  and  agony  combined  from  the  back 
of  the  house.  He  went  round  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  A  deep  drain  had 
been  opened  across  the  yard,  the  bottom  of  which  was  stiff  clay.  Into  this 
by  some  unlucky  curiosity  the  sow  had  been  tempted  to  descend,  and  being 
there  found  a  difficulty  in  getting  out.  The  horses  were  loose.  The  pony 


38 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

occasionally  rode  or  walked  together.  But  the  occasions 
grew  rarer  and  rarer.  Carlyle  was  essentially  solitary, 
lie  went  out  in  all  weathers,  indifferent  to  wet  and,  in 
spite  of  his  imagined  ill-health,  impervious  to  cold.  But 
he  preferred  to  he  alone  with  his  thoughts,  and  Mrs.  Car¬ 
lyle  was  left  at  home  to  keep  the  house  in  proper  order. 
She  by  education,  and  he  by  temperament,  liked  every¬ 
thing  to  be  well  kept  and  trim.  He  was  extremely  dainty 
about  his  food.  He  did  not  care  for  delicacies,  but  clean¬ 
liness  and  perfect  cookery  of  common  things  he  always  in¬ 
sisted  on,  and  if  the  porridge  was  smoked,  or  the  bread 
heavy,  or  the  butter  less  than  perfect,  or  a  plate  or  a  dish 
ill-washed^  he  was  entirely  intolerable.  Thus  the  neces¬ 
sary  imperfections  of  Scotch  farm-servant  girls  had  to  be 
supplemented  by  Mrs.  Carlyle  herself.  She  baked  the 
bread,  she  dressed  the  dinner  or  saw  it  dressed,  she  cleaned 
the  rooms.  Among  her  other  accomplishments  she  had 
to  learn  to  milk  the  cows,  in  case  the  byre-woman  should 
be  out  of  the  way,  for  fresh  milk  was  the  most  essential 
article  of  Carlyle’s  diet.  Hay,  it  might  happen  that  she 
had  to  black  the  grates  to  the  proper  polish,  or  even  scour 
the  floors  while  Carlyle  looked  on  encouragingly  with  his 
pipe.  In  addition  to  this  she  had  charge  of  dairy  and 
poultry  ;  not  herself  necessarily  making  butter  or  killing 
fowls,  but  directing  what  was  to  be  done  and  seeing  that 
it  was  done  properly.  Her  department,  in  short,  was  the 
whole  establishment.  This  winter  she  was  tolerably  well, 
and  as  long  as  her  health  lasted  she  complained  of  nqtli-  ■ 
ing.  Her  one  object  was  to  keep  Carlyle  contented,  to 
prevent  him  from  being  fretted  by  any  petty  annoyance, 

saw  the  opportunity — the  sow  was  struggling  to  extricate  herself.  The  pony 
stood  over  her,  and  at  each  effort  cuffed  her  hack  again  with  a  stroke  of  the 
fore  hoof.  The  sow  was  screaming  more  from  fury  than  pain.  Larry  stood 
by  watching  the  performance  and  smiling  approval,  nodding  his  head  every 
time  that  the  beast  was  knocked  back  into  the  clay,  with  (as  Carlyle  declared) 
the  most  obvious  and  exquisite  perception  of  the  nature  of  the  situation. 


* 


39 


Winter  Life  at  Craigenputtock. 

End  pi  event  liim  also  from  knowing  with,  how  much  labour 
to  herself  his  own  comfort  was  secured. 

Thus  the  months  passed  on  pleasantly.  The  ‘  tempests,’ 
about  which  Jeffrey  had  been  so  anxious,  howled  over  the 
moors,  but  did  not  much  affect  them.  Carlyle’s  letters 
were  written  in  fair  spirits.  The  Devil’s  Den  had  become 
a  tolerable  home.  Mrs.  Carlyle,  it  seems,  when  she  could 
spare  time,  galloped  down  alone  to  Templand  (15  miles)  to 
see  her  mother. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock:  November 26,  1828. 

This  house,  bating  some  outskirt  things,  which  must  be  left  till 
spring,  is  really  substantial,  comfortable,  and  even  half  elegant. 
I  sit  here  in  my  little  library  and  laugh  at  the  howling  tempests, 
for  there  are  green  curtains  and  a  clear  fire  and  papered  walls. 
The  ‘  old  kitchen  ’  also  is  as  tight  a  dining  room  as  you  would 
wish  for  me,  and  has  a  black  clean  barred  grate,  at  which,  when 
filled  with  Sanquhar  coals,  you  might  roast  Boreas  himself.  The 
good  wife  too  is  happy  and  contented  with  me  and  her  solitude, 
which  I  believe  is  not  to  be  equalled  out  of  Sahara  itself.  You 
cannot  figure  the  stillness  of  these  moors  in  a  November  drizzle. 
Nevertheless  I  walk  often  under  cloud  of  night,  in  good  Ecclefe- 
chan  clogs,  down  as  far  as  Carstammon  Burn,  sometimes  to  Sandy 
Wells,  conversing  with  the  void  heaven  in  the  most  pleasant 
fashion.  Besides  Jane  also  has  a  pony  now  which  can  canter  to 
perfection  even  by  the  side  of  Larry.  To-morrow  she  is  going 
over  to  Templand  with  it,  and  it  is  by  her  that  I  send  this  letter. 
Grace,  our  servant,  a  tight  tidy  careful  sharp-tempered  woman,  is 
the  only  other  inmate  of  the  house. 

I  write  hard  all  day,  and  then  Jane  and  I,  both  learning  Spanish 
for  the  last  month,  read  a  chapter  of  ‘  Don  Quixote  ’  between 
dinner  and  tea,  and  are  already  half  through  the  first  volume  and 
eager  to  persevere.  After  tea  I  sometimes  write  again,  being 
dreadfully  slow  at  the  business,  and  then  generally  go  over  to 
Alick  and  Mary  and  smoke  my  last  pipe  with  them ;  and  so  I  end 
the  day,  having  done  little  good,  perhaps,  but  almost  no  ill  that  I 
could  help  to  any  creature  of  God’s. 

So  pass  our  days,  except  that  sometimes  I  stroll  with  my  axe  or 
bill  in  the  plantations,  and  when  I  am  not  writing  I  am  reading. 


40 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

We  had  Henry  Inglis  here  for  three  days,  and  our  father  for  a 
week  lately,  both  of  whom  seemed  highly  contented  with  this 
wonderful  Craig.  Alick  and  Mary,  you  already  understand,  live 
in  their  own  cottage,  or  rather  double  farmhouse,  for  were  it  once 
dried  it  will  be  the  bieldest,  tightest  mansion  of  its  sort  within 
some  miles  of  it.  They  have  two  man-servants  and  two  maid¬ 
servants,  are  fattening,  or  merely  boarding,  quantities  of  black  cat¬ 
tle,  have  almost  a  dozen  pigs,  and  plenty  of  weak  corn,  and  about 
eighty  cartloads  of  potatoes,  to  say  nothing  of  turnip  acres,  to  feed 
them  with.  Alick  is  about  thatching  a  cattle  shed,  long  since  built 
(of  dry  stones),  down  near  the  moor,  and  we  have  had  roadsmen 
for  many  weeks  gravelling  the  front  of  this  door  (a  most  marked 
improvement),  making  us  a  proper  road  to  it,  and  thoroughly  re¬ 
pairing  the  old  road.  Thus  you  see  chaos  is  rolling  himself  back 
from  us  by  degrees,  and  all  winter  we  are  to  have  stone- diking,  and 
planting,  and  draining  (if  I  can  write  for  the  cash),  till  by-and-by  I 
think  this  hermitage  will  positively  become  a  very  tolerable  place. 
Tor  the  rest  we  drink  tea  together  every  Sunday  night  and  live  in 
good  brotherhood,  having  no  neighbours  that  do  not  wish  us  well. 

As  to  my  writing,  it  is  only  at  present  a  most  despicable  *  arti¬ 
cle  ’  entitled  ‘  German  Playwrights,’  with  which  I  expect  to  be 
done  in  a  week. 

Next  I  mean  to  write  one  on  Novalis,  and  probably  a  larger  one 
on  \  oltaire.  Some  day  these  roads  will  be  made  and  sky -lights 
mended,  and  all  tight  and  pargetted,  and  I  shall  have  leisure  to 
cease  reviewing,  and  try  to  give  work  for  reviewing. 

Our  news,  beyond  our  own  household,  are  mostly  of  a  sombre 
cast.  James  Anderson,  the  young  Laird  of  Straquhar,  our  kind 
neighbour  and  acquaintance,  died  after  two  days’  illness  a  few 
weeks  ago.  John  Grier,  of  the  Grove,  is  gone  to  his  long  home. 
He  also  died  suddenly,  but  like  a  just  man,  and  with  entire  com¬ 
posure.  Is  not  this  world  a  mystery,  and  grand  with  terror  as 
well  as  beauty  ?  1  My  letter,  you  will  see,  ends  in  sable,  like  the 
life  of  man.  My  own  thoughts  grow  graver  every  day  I  live. 

When  Carlyle  was  in  good  spirits,  his  wife  had  a  pleas* 
ant  time  with  him.  ( Ill  to  live  wi’,’  impatient,  irritable 

1  In  a  previous  letter  Carlyle,  speaking  of  another  death,  says  :  ‘  Oh  God, 
it  is  a  fearful  world,  this  we  live  in,  a  film  spread  over  bottomless  abysses, 
into  which  no  eye  has  pierced.’  The  same  expression  occurs  in  the  French 
Revolution.  The  image  had  already  impressed  itself  into  his  mind. 


Winter  Life  on  the  Moor. 


41 


over  little  things,  that  he  always  was  ;  but  he  was  charm¬ 
ing,  too  ;  no  conversation  in  my  experience  ever  equalled 
his ;  and  unless  the  evil  spirit  had  possession  of  him,  even 
his  invectives  when  they  burst  out  piled  themselves  into 
metaphors  so  extravagant  that  they  ended  in  convulsions 
of  laughter  with  his  whole  body  and  mind,  and  then  all 
was  well  again.  Their  Spanish  studies  together  were  de¬ 
lightful  to  both.  His  writing  was  growing  better  and 
better.  She — the  most  watchful  and  severest  of  critics, — 
who  never  praised  where  praise  was  not  deserved,  w^s 
happy  in  the  fulfilment  of  her  prophecies,  and  her  hardest 
work  was  a  delight  to  her  when  she  could  spare  her  hus¬ 
band’s  mind  an  anxiety  or  his  stomach  an  indigestion.  At 
Christmas  she  had  a  holiday,  going  down  to  her  mother 
and  grandfather  at  Templand.  But  while  away  among 
her  own  people  her  heart  was  on  the  Craig.  This  is  one 
of  the  letters  which  Carlyle  himself  annotated,  in  the  sad 
days  when  she  was  lost  to  him  for  ever. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Templand  :  December  30,  1828. 

Goody,  Goody,  dear  Goody, — -You  said  you  would  weary,  and  X 
do  hope  in  my  heart  you  are  wearying.  It  will  be  so  sweet  to 
make  it  all  up  to  you  in  kisses  when  I  return.  You  will  take  me 
and  hear  all  my  bits  of  experiences,  and  your  heart  will  beat  when 
you  find  how  I  have  longed  to  return  to  you.  Darling,  dearest, 
loveliest,  ‘The  Lord  bless  you.’1  I  think  of  you  every  hour, 
every  moment.  I  love  you  and  admire  you,  like— like  anything. 
My  own  Good-Good.  But  to  get  away  on  Sunday  was  not  in  my 
power :  my  mother  argued,  entreated,  and  finally  grat  (wept).  I 
held  out  on  the  ground  of  having  appointed  Alick  to  meet  me  at 
church ;  but  that  was  untenable.  John  Kerr  2  could  be  sent  oil  at 
break  of  day  to  tell  that  I  could  not  come.  I  urged  that  the 
household  would  find  themselves  destitute  of  every  Christian 
comfoart ,  unless  I  were  home  before  Wednesday.  That  could  be 

1  ‘Poor  Edward  Irving’s  practice  and  locution,  suspect  of  being  somewhat 
too  solemn  !  T.  C.’ 

2  The  Templand  man-servant. 


42 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


taken  care  of  by  sending  anything  that  was  wanted  from  here. 
Tea,  sugar,  butchers’  meat,  everything  was  at  my  service.  Well, 
but  I  wanted,  I  said,  to  be  your  first-foot  on  New  Year’s  Day.  I 
might  be  gratified  in  this  also.  She  would  hire  a  post-chaise  and 
take  me  over  for  that  day  on  condition  I  returned  at  night ! 

In  short,  she  had  a  remedy  ready  for  everything  hut  death,  and 
I  could  not  without  seeming  very  unkind  and  ungracious,  refuse 
to  stay  longer  than  I  proposed.  So  I  write  this  letter  ‘ with  my 
own  hand  ’  [Ed.  Irving]  that  you  may  not  be  disappointed  from 
day  to  day ;  but  prepare  to  welcome  me  ‘  in  your  choicest  mood  ’ 
on  Sunday.  If  the  day  is  at  all  tolerable,  perhaps  Alick  or  you 
will  meet  me  at  church.  Mrs.  Crichton,  of  Dabton,  was  very  press¬ 
ing  that  you  and  I  should  spend  some  days  with  them  just  now, 
‘when  their  house  was  full  of  company.’  But  I  assured  her  it 
would  be  losing  labour  to  ask  you.  However,  by  way  of  consola¬ 
tion,  I  have  agreed  to  ‘  refresh  ’  a  party  for  her  with  my  presence 
on  Friday,  and  held  out  some  hope  that  you  would  visit  them  at 

your  leisure.  ‘  I  am  sure  the  kindness  of  those  people - ’  ‘  The 

Lord  bless  them  !  ’ 1 

Dearest,  I  wonder  if  you  are  getting  any  victual.  There  must 
be  cocks  at  least,  and  the  chickens  will  surely  have  laid  their  eggs. 
I  have  many  an  anxious  thought  about  you  ;  and  I  wonder  if  you 
sleep  at  nights,  or  if  you  are  wandering  about — on,  on — smoking 
and  killing  mice.  Oh,  if  I  was  there  I  could  put  my  arms  so  close 
about  your  neck,  and  hush  you  into  the  softest  sleep  you  have  had 
since  I  went  away.  Good  night.  Dream  of  me. 

I  am  ever, 

Your  own  Goody. 

The  first  year  of  Craigenputtock  thus  drew  to  an  end. 
The  storms  of  December  were  succeeded  by  frost,  and  the 
moors  were  bound  fast  in  ice.  Carlyle  continued  as  busy 
as  ever  at  what  he  called  ‘  the  despicable  craft  of  review¬ 
ing,5  but  doing  his  very  best  with  it.  Ho  slop-work  ever 
dropped  from  his  pen.  He  never  wrote  down  a  word 
which  he  had  not  weighed,  or  a  sentence  which  he  had 
not  assured  himself  contained  a  truth.  Every  one  of  the 
articles  composed  on  this  bare  hill-top  has  come  to  be  re¬ 
printed  unaltered,  and  most  of  them  have  a  calmness  too 

1  Irving. 


Essay  on  Voltaire . 


43 


often  absent  from  his  later  writings.  Handsome  pay,  as  I 
said,  came  in,  but  not  more  than  was  needed.  Brother 
John  was  a  constant  expense;  and  even  in  the  ‘Dnnscore 
wilderness’  life  was  impossible  without  money.  4  Alas!’ 
Carlyle  said,  4  for  the  days  when  Diogenes  could  tit  up  his 
tub,  and  let  the  44  literary  world  ”  and  all  the  other  worlds 
except  the  only  true  one  within  his  own  soul  wag  hither 
and  thither  at  discretion.’ 

Voltaire  was  now  his  subject.  His  mind  was  already 
turning  with  an  unconscious  fascination  towards  the  French 
Revolution.  He  had  perceived  it  to  be  the  most  note¬ 
worthy  phenomenon  of  modern  times.  It  was  interesting 
to  him,  as  an  illustration  of  his  conviction  that  untruthful¬ 
ness  and  injustice  were  as  surely  followed  by  divine  retribu¬ 
tion  as  the  idolatries  and  tyrannies  of  Biblical  Egypt  and 
Assyria;  that  the  Power  which  men  professed  on  Sundays 
to  believe  in  was  a  living  Power,  the  most  real,  the  most 
tremendous  of  all  facts.  France  had  rejected  the  Reforma¬ 
tion.  Truth  had  been  offered  her  in  the  shape  of  light, 
and  she  would  not  have  it,  and  it  was  now  to  come  to  her 
as  lightning.  She  had  murdered  her  prophets.  She  had 
received  instead  of  them  the  scoffing  Encyclopaedists.  Yet 
with  these  transcendental  or  4  mystic  ’  notions  in  his  head, 
Carlyle  could  write  about  the  most  worldly  of  all  men  of 
genius,  as  himself  a  man  of  the  world.  He  meets  Voltaire 
on  his  own  ground,  follows  him  into  his  private  history 
with  sympathising  amusement ;  falls  into  no  fits  of  horror 
over  his  opinions  or  his  immoralities  ;  but  regards  them  as 
the  natural  outcome  of  the  circumstances  of  the  time.  In 
Voltaire  he  sees  the  representative  Frenchman  of  the  age, 
whose  function  was  to  burn  up  unrealities,  out  of  the  ashes 
of  which  some  more  healthy  verdure  might  eventually 
spring.  He  could  not  reverence  Voltaire,  but  he  could  not 
hate  him.  How  could  he  hate  a  man  who  had  fought  man¬ 
fully  against  injustice  in  high  places,  and  had  himself  manx 


I 


44 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

a  time  in  private  done  kind  and  generous  actions?  To 
Carlyle,  Y oltaire  was  no  apostle  charged  with  any  divine 
message  of  positive  truth.  Even  in  his  crusade  against 
what  he  believed  to  be  false,  Y oltaire  was  not  animated  writh 
a  high  and  noble  indignation.  He  was  simply  an  instru¬ 
ment  of  destruction,  enjoying  his  work  with  the  pleasure  of 
some  mocking  imp,  yet  preparing  the  wray  for  the  tremen- 
*  dou§  conflagration  which  was  impending.  There  is,  of 
course,  audible  in  this  article  a  deep  undertone  of  feeling. 
Yet  the  language  of  it  is  free  from  everything  like  excited 
rhetoric^  In  the  earlier  part  of  his  career  Carlyle  sympa¬ 
thised  with  and  expected  more  from  the  distinctive  func¬ 
tions  of  revolution  than  he  was  able  to  do  after  longer  expe¬ 
rience.  4 1  thought,’  he  once  said  to  me,  ‘  that  it  wras  the 
abolition  of  rubbish.  I  find  it  has  been  only  the  kindling 
of  a  dunghill.  The  dry  straw  on  the  outside  burns  off ; 
but  the  huge  damp  rotting  mass  remains  where  it  was.’ 

Thinking  on  these  momentous  subjects,  Carlyle  took  his 
nightly  walks  on  the  frozen  moor,  the  ground  crisp  under 
his  feet,  the  stars  shining  over  his  head,  and  the  hills  of 
.Dunscore  (for  advantage  had  been  taken  of  the  dryness  of 
the  air)  ‘  gleaming  like  Strombolis  or  Etnas  with  the  burn¬ 
ing  of  heath.’  4  Craigenputtock  otherwise  silent,  solitary 
as  Tadmore  in  the  wilderness ;  yet  the  infinite  vault  still 
over  it,  and  the  earth  a  little  ship  of  space  in  which  he 
was  sailing,  and  man  everywhere  in  his  Maker’s  eye  and 
hand.’ 

The  new  year  perhaps  did  not  bring  many  letters ;  for 
Carlyle’s  friends  were  still  few,  and  his  intimate  friends 
who  would  write  on  such  occasions  were  very  few.  One 
letter,  however,  could  not  fail  to  come  from  the  faithful 
Jeffrey,  who  sent,  as  a  Yew  Year  greeting,  ‘kind  thoughts 
and  good  wishes,’  with  a  laughing  lecture  against  ‘  dogma¬ 
tism,’  and  ‘  the  desperate  darkness  of  audacious  mysticism.’ 
From  this  Jeffrey  passed  to  moralising  on  human  life  and 


45 


Winter  Life  on  the  Moor . 

things  in  general.  Edinburgh  and  the  whole  of  Britain  had 
been  shaken  by  the  Burke  and  Hare  business.  With  the 
light  touch,  half  jesting  and  half  serious,  which  is  the 
charm  of  Jeffrey’s  style,  he  spoke  of  himself  as  living  in 
fear  of  fever  and  dissection,  yet  not  less  gaily,  less  care¬ 
lessly  than  usual.  Men,  he  said,  were  naturally  predesti- 
narians,  and  ran  their  risks  patiently  because  they  cQuld 
not  avoid  them.  The  pestilent  and  murdering  angels  had 
passed  him  so  far,  and  he  was  grateful  for  his  escape. 
Carlyle  had  been  reading  ‘  Don  Quixote,’  and  in  writing  to 
Jeffrey  had  alluded  to  it,  contrasting  old  times  with  new, 
Jeffrey  protested  against  Carlyle’s  damnable  heresy,  insist¬ 
ing  that  there  were  plenty  of  shabby  fellows  whining  over 
petty  aches  and  finding  life  irksome  in  the  age  and  country 
of  Cervantes,  and  that  in  the  Britain  of  George  IV.  there 
were  stout-hearted,  bright-spirited  men  who  bore  up  against 
captivity  and  worse  ills  as  cheerily  as  he  did.  He  invited 
Carlyle  to  come  and  stay  with  him  in  Edinburgh,  and 
shake  off  his  sickly  fancies.  They  might  furnish  swelling 
themes  for  eloquence,  but  were  out  of  date  and  never  con¬ 
vinced  anybody  ;  and  as  for  Carlyle’s  notion  that  a  man 
ought  to  have  a  right  creed  as  to  his  relations  with  the  uni - 
verse,  he  would  never  persuade  anyone  that  the  regulation 
of  life  was  such  a  laborious  business  as  he  would  make  it, 
or  that  it  wTas  not  better  to  go  lightly  through  it  with  the 
first  creed  that  came  to  hand ,  than  spend  the  better  half  of 
it  in  an  anxious  verification  of  its  articles.  It  would  mat¬ 
ter  less  if  Carlyle  was  but  amusing  himself  with  paradoxes, 
but  he  was  4  so  dreadfully  in  earnest.’  He  was  neutralis¬ 
ing  half  the  fame  and  all  the  use  of  his  talents,  and  keep¬ 
ing  aloof  from  him  most  of  the  men  who  wTere  fittest  for 
his  society. 

hfever  had  Jeffrey  written  to  Carlyle  with  more  warmth. 
The  provocation  to  which  he  confessed  was  but  the 
overflowing  of  good  will  to  which  his  friend  s  views  pi  e- 


46 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

vented  him  from  giving  the  effect  which  he  desired.  The 
good  will,  though  perfectly  genuine,  was  not  entirely  disin¬ 
terested.  Carlyle’s  essays  had  drawn  the  notice  of  the  dis¬ 
tinguished  band  of  men  who  were  then  the  chief  contribu¬ 
tors  to  the  6  Edinburgh  Review.’  They  had  recognised  that 
he  had  extraordinary  talents ;  that  if  he  could  be  brought 
to  his  senses  and  would  subscribe  the  articles  of  the  Whig 
faith,  he  might  be  an  invaluable  recruit  to  the  great  party 
of  Reform.  Jeffrey  himself  was  about  to  retire  from  the 
editorship  of  the  4  Edinburgh  Review,’  and  to  become  Dean 
of  the  Faculty.  His  advice,  though  not  decisive,  would 
be  of  weight  in  the  choice  of  his  successor,  and  lie  had 
seriously  thought  of  recommending  Carlyle.  Brougham, 
Macaulay,  Sydney  Smith  would  all  have  more  or  less  to  be 
consulted  ;  and  perhaps  the  political  chiefs  as  well ;  yet  if 
his  friend  would  only  be  amenable,  burn  his  Goethe,  re¬ 
nounce  his  mysticism,  and  let  his  talents  and  virtues  have 
fair  play,  Jeffrey  must  have  thought  that  the  objections  in 
those  quarters  would  not  be  insurmountable. 

So  was  Carlyle  tempted  in  his  hermitage,  like  another 
St.  Anthony,  by  the  spirit  of  this  world,  and  in  a  more  se¬ 
ductive  dress  than  that  in  which  it  assailed  the  Christian 
saint.  There  was  no  situation  in  the  empire  more  attrac¬ 
tive  to  literary  ambition  than  the  editorship  of  the  6  Edin¬ 
burgh  Review’  in  those  its  palmy  days  of  glory  and  power. 
To  have  been  even  thought  of  for  such  an  office  implied 
that  the  attention  of  the  Reform  leaders  had  been  drawn 
to  him  ;  and  that  if  not  in  this  way,  yet  in  some  others, 
he  might,  if  he  pleased,  be  advanced  to  some  lucrative  and 
honourable  office.  The  difficulty  was  not  on  their  side,  it 
was  on  his.  The  way  which  they  called  heresy  he  called 
truth,  and  the  kind,  honest,  but  seducing  angel  assailed 
him  in  vain. 

Carlyle,  though  in  the  ‘  Reminiscences  of  Lord  Jeffrey  ’ 
he  has  acknowledged  a  general  wish  on  Jeffrey’s  part  to 


Editorship  of  Edinburgh  Review. 


47 


serve  him,  which  was  thwarted  by  his  own  persistency, 
has  passed  over  without  mention  this  particular  instance 
of  it.  He  never  mentioned  it  even  in  conversation  to 
myself.  But  the  fact  was  so.  Jeffrey  is  himself  the  wit¬ 
ness.  The  publishers  of  the  4  Be  view  5  came  down  to  Edin¬ 
burgh  to  consult  with  him.  Carlyle  was  not  actually  pro¬ 
posed.  The  prudent  and  cautious  views  of  the  Longmans, 
and  Jeffrey’s  wish  to  spare  Carlyle  the  mortification  of  be¬ 
ing  rejected,  prevented  his  pretensions  from  being  brought 
directly  under  discussion.  But  the  inflexibility  and  in¬ 
dependence  of  Carlyle’s  character  were  the  chief,  per¬ 
haps  the  only  obstacles.  Jeffrey  was  bitterly  disappointed. 
The  person  selected  was  Macvey  Vapier,  the  editor  of  the 
4  Encyclopaedia,’  4  a  safe  man  at  all  events.’  Jeffrey,  writ¬ 
ing  to  Carlyle,  could  not  hide  his  mortification.  4  It  was 
with  mixed  sorrow  and  anger,’  he  said,  that  he  saw  his 
friend  renouncing  his  natural  titles  to  distinction  for  such 
fantastical  idolatry.  The  folly  of  his  own  fair  cousin’s  an¬ 
cestors,  who  threw  away  their  money  in  improving  and 
adorning  Craigenputtock,  was  but  a  faint  type  of  Car¬ 
lyle’s.  But  he  could  not  help  him  ;  he  would  pray  for  him 
if  it  would  do  any  good. 

A  further  effect  of  the  change  of  editorship  was  that  it 
threatened  at  first  the  close  of  Carlyle’s  connection  with 
the  4B.eview,’  oven  as  a  contributor.  Jeffrey  continued  to 
edit  till  the  middle  of  1829,  and  so  long  as  he  was  in  the 
chair  Carlyle’s  help  was  still  solicited.  The  Voltaire  had 
been  written  for  the  4  Edinburgh,’  if  the  4  Edinburgh  ’ 
would  have  it,  and  a  corresponding,  article  was  in  contem¬ 
plation  upon  Johnson,  Voltaire’s  direct  antithesis.  In  either 
of  these  subjects  pleased  Jeffrey.  Carlyle,  he  thought, 
perhaps  in  this  case  with  some  want  of  judgment,  could 
have  nothing  new  to  say  on  either  of  them.  But  as  the 
time  of  his  withdrawal  drew  near  he  begged  hard  for  a 
parting  contribution  for  his  last  number.  The  \  oltaire 


48 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

would  have  answered  well  for  him,  but  he  did  not  even 
ask  to  look  at  it.  On  any  other  subject  Carlyle  might 
write  what  he  pleased  ;  mysticism  of  the  worst  kind  should 
not  be  rejected.  He  was  really  ambitious,  he  said,  of  hav¬ 
ing  a  morsel  of  mysticism.  He  was  going  to  take  advan¬ 
tage  of  his  approaching  abdication  by  plaguing  Brougham 
with  an  attack  on  Utilitarianism;  and  it  was  but  reason¬ 
able  that  he  should  use  the  same  retreat  from  responsibil¬ 
ity  in  encouraging  Carlyle  to  commit  a  fresh  outrage  on 
the  rational  part  of  his  readers.  Any  topic  would  serve  as 
a  text.  Jeffrey  suggested  ‘Vivian  Grey’  or  ‘Pelham.’ 
‘Vivian  Grey’  he  considered  better  than  the  best  novel 
which  any  German  had  ever  written.  Carlyle  proposed 
Southey,  but  Macaulay  had  forestalled  him.  In  the  end 
Carlyle  wrote  the  ‘  Signs  of  the  Times,’  the  first  of  the 
essays  in  which  he  brought  out  his  views  of  the  condi¬ 
tion  of  modern  English  society — a  most  signal  outrage  in¬ 
deed,  if  that  was  what  Jeffrey  wanted,  on  ‘  the  Philoso¬ 
phy  of  Progress  ’  which  was  preached  so  continuously  from 
the  Edinburgh  pulpit.  He  gave  Jeffrey  full  warning  of 
what  was  coming.  Jeffrey  only  encouraged  him  with  vis¬ 
ibly  malicious  amusement.  But  the  cautious  character 
which  he  ascribed  to  Hapier  made  it  probable  that  this 
article  might  be  his  last  in  that  periodical. 

Of  outward  incidents  meanwhile  the  Craigenputtock 
history  was  almost  entirely  destitute.  The  year  1829 
rolled  by  without  interruption  to  the  tranquil  routine  of 
daily  life.  John  Carlyle  came  home  from  Germany  and 
became  sometimes  his  brother’s  guest  till  a  situation  as 
doctor  could  be  found  for  him.  Carlyle  himself  wrote  and 
rode  and  planted  potatoes.  Elis  wife’s  faculty  for  spread¬ 
ing  grace  about  her  had  extended  to  the  outside  premises, 
and  behind  the  shelter  of  the  trees  she  had  raised  a  rose 
garden.  An  old  but  strong  and  convenient  gig  was  added 
to  the  establishment.  When  an  article  was  finished  Car- 


49 


Margaret  Carlyle. 

lyle  allowed  himself  a  fortnight’s  holiday :  he  and  Mrs. 
Carlyle  driving  off  with  Larry  either  to  Templand  or  to 
Seotsbrig ;  the  pipe  and  tobacco  duly  arranged  under  cover 
on  the  inner  side  of  the  splashboard.  The  Jeffreys  passed 
through  Dumfries  in  the  summer.  Their  friends  from  the 
Craig  drove  down  to  see  them,  and  were  even  meditating 
afterwards  an  expedition  in  the  same  style  throughout 
England  as  far  as  Cornwall. 

Carlyle  was  full  of  thoughts  on  the  great  social  questions 
of  the  day.  He  wished  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  the  ac¬ 
tual  condition  of  the  people  of  England,  as  they  lived  in 
their  own  homes.  The  plan  had  to  be  abandoned  for 
wrant  of  means,  but  he  had  set  his  own  heart  upon  it,  and 
Mrs.  Carlyle  wrould  have  been  glad  too  of  a  change  from  a 
solitude  which  was  growing  intolerably  oppressive.  Car¬ 
lyle’s  ill  humours  had  not  come  back,  but  he  was  occupied 
and  indifferent.  There  is  a  letter  from  his  wife  to  old 
Mrs.  Carlyle  at  Seotsbrig,  undated,  but  belonging  evi¬ 
dently  to  March  of  this  year,  in  which  she  complains  of 
the  loneliness.  ‘  Carlyle,’  she  says,  6  never  asks  me  to  go 
with  him,  never  even  looks  as  if  he  desired  my  company.’ 

One  visitor,  however,  came  to  Craigenputtock  in  the 
summer  whose  visit  was  more  than  welcome.  Margaret, 
the  eldest  of  Carlyle’s  sisters,  had  the  superiority  of  mind 
and  talent  which  belonged  to  her  brother,  and  she  had 
along  with  it  an  instinctive  delicacy  and  nobleness  of 
nature  which  had  overcome  the  disadvantages  of  her  edu¬ 
cation.  She  had  become  a  most  striking  and  interesting 
woman,  but  unhappily  along  with  it  she  had  shown  symp¬ 
toms  of  consumption.  In  the  preceding  autumn  the  family 
had  been  seriously  alarmed  about  her.  She  had  been  ill 
all  through  the  winter,  but  she  had  rallied  with  the  return 
of  warm  weather.  The  cough  ceased,  the  colour  came 
back  to  her  cheeks,  she  was  thought  to  have  recovered 
entirely  and  in  June  or  July  she  rode  over  with  her 
Vol.  II.— 4 


50 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

brother  John  from  Scotsbrig  to  Craigenputtock,  picking 
up  on  the  way  a  precious  letter  which  was  waiting  at 
Dumfries  post-office. 

I  remember  (Carlyle  writes)  -one  beautiful  summer  evening, 
1829,  as  I  lounged  out  of  doors  smoking  my  evening  pipe,  silent 
in  the  great  silence,  the  woods  and  liill  tops  all  gilt  with  the  flam- 
ing  splendour  of  a  summer  sun  just  about  to  set,  there  came  a 
rustle  and  a  sound  of  hoofs  into  the  little  bending  avenue  on  my 
left  (sun  was  behind  the  house  and  me),  and  the  minute  after 
brother  John  and  Margaret  direct  from  Scotsbrig,  fresh  and  hand¬ 
some,  as  their  little  horses  ambled  up,  one  of  the  gladdest  sights 
and  surprises  to  me.  ‘Mag,  dear  Mag,  once  more.’  1  John  had 
found  a  letter  from  Goethe  for  me  at  the  post-oflice,  Dumfries. 
This,  having  sent  them  in  doors,  I  read  in  my  old  posture  and 
place,  pure  white  the  fine  big  sheet  itself,  still  purer  the  noble 
meaning  all  in  it,  as  if  mutely  pointing  to  eternity — letter  fit  to  be 
read  in  such  a  place  and  time.2  Our  dear  Mag  stayed  some 
couple  of  weeks  or  more  (made  me  a  nice  buff-coloured  cotton 
waiscoat,  I  remember).  She  was  quietly  cheerful,  and  com¬ 
plained  of  nothing ;  but  my  darling,  with  her  quick  eye,  had  no¬ 
ticed  too  well  (as  she  then  whispered  to  me)  that  the  recovery  was 
only  superficial,  and  that  worse  might  be  ahead.  It  was  the  last 
visit  Margaret  ever  made. 

Nothing  more  of  special  moment  happened  this  year. 
Life  went  on  as  usual ;  but  the  autumn  brought  anxieties 
of  more-  than  one  description.  The  letters  that  remain  are 
few,  for  his  wife  and  his  brother  Alexander,  to  whom  he 
wrote  most  confidentially,  were  both  at  Craigenputtock,  and 
his  brother  John  also  was  for  several  months  with  him. 
lie  was  trying  to  produce  something  better  than  review 
articles,  and  was  engaged  busily  with  an  intended  history 
of  German  literature,  for  which  he  had  collected  a  large 
quantity  of  books.  But  John  Carlyle,  who  was  naturally 
listless,  had  to  be  stimulated  to  exertion,  and  was  sent  to 
London  to  look  for  employment.  Employment  would  not 

1  The  account  is  taker  from  the  Reminiscences.  The  concluding  words  are 
inserted  from  a  letter. 

8 1  discover  no  trace  of  this  letter.  Perhaps  it  may  yet  be  found. 


51 


Jeffrey's  Friendship. 

come ;  perhaps  was  less  assiduously  looked  for  than  it 
might  have  been.  The  expense  of  his  maintenance  fell 
on  Carlyle,  and  the  reviews  were  the  only  source  to  which 
he  could  look.  More  articles  therefore  had  to  be  produced 
if  a  market  could  be  found  for  them.  Jeffrey,  constant  in 
his  friendship,  consulted  the  new  editor  of  the  ‘Edin¬ 
burgh,’  and  various  subjects  were  suggested  and  thought 
over.  Carlyle  proposed  Rapoleon,  but  another  contribu¬ 
tor  was  in  the  way.  Jeffrey  was  in  favor  of  Wycliffe, 
Luther,  or  c  the  Philosophy  of  the  .Reformation.’  Rapier 
thought  a  striking  article  might  be  written  on  some  poeti¬ 
cal  subject ;  but  when  Jeffrey  hinted  to  him  some  of  Car- 
lyle’s  views  on  those  topics,  and  how  contemptuously  he 
regarded  all  the  modern  English  singers,  the  new  editor 
‘  shuddered  at  the  massacre  of  the  innocents  to  which  he 
had  dreamt  of  exciting  him.’  Still,  for  himself,  Jeffrey 
thought  that  if  Carlyle  was  in  a  relenting  mood,  and 
wished  to  exalt  or  mystify  the  world  by  a  fine  rhapsody 
on  the  divine  art,  he  might  be  encouraged  to  try  it. 

Liking  Jeffrey  as  Carlyle  did,  he  was  puzzled  at  so 
much  interest  being  shown  in  him.  He  called  it  a  mys¬ 
tery.  Jeffrey  humourously  caught  up  the  word,  and  ac¬ 
cepted  it  as  the  highest  compliment  which  Carlyle  could 
pay.  In  a  humbler  sense,  however,  he  was  content  to 
think  it  natural  that  one  man  of  a  kind  heart  should  feel 
attracted  towards  another,  and  that  signal  purity  and  lofti¬ 
ness  of  character,  joined  to  great  talents  and  something  of 
a  romantic  history,  should  excite  interest  and  respect. 

Jeffrey’s  anxiety  to  be  of  use  did  not  end  in  recom¬ 
mendations  to  Rapier.  He  knew  how  the  Carlyles  were 
situated  in  money  matters.  He  knew  that  they  were 
poor,  and  that  their  poverty  had  risen  from  a  voluntary 
surrender  of  means  which  were  properly  their  own,  but 
which  they  would  not  touch  while  Mrs.  "Welsh  was  alive. 
He  knew  also  that  Carlyle  had  educated  and  was  still  sup- 


52 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

porting  his  brother  out  of  his  own  slender  earnings.  He 
saw,  as  he  supposed,  a  man  of  real  brilliancy  and  genius 
weighed  down  and  prevented  from  doing  justice  to  him¬ 
self  by  a  drudgery  which  deprived  him  of  the  use  of  his 
more  commanding  talents;  and  with  a  generosity  the 
merit  of  which  was  only  exceeded  by  the  delicacy  with 
which  the  offer  was  made,  he  proposed  that  Carlyle  should 
accept  a  small  annuity  from  him.  Here  again  I  regret 
that  I  am  forbidden  to  print  the  admirable  letter  in  which 
Jeffrey  conveyed  his  desire,  to  which  Carlyle  in  his  own 
mention  of  this  transaction  has  done  but  scanty  justice. 
The  whole  matter  he  said  should  be  an  entire  secret  be¬ 
tween  them.  He  would  tell  no  one — not  even  his  wife. 
He  bade  Carlyle  remember  that  he  too  would  have  been 
richer  if  he  had  not  been  himself  a  giver  where  there  was 
less  demand  upon  his  liberality.  He  ought  not  to  wish 
for  a  monopoly  of  generosity,  and  if  he  was  really  a  relig¬ 
ious  man  he  must  do  as  he  would  be  done  to ;  nor,  he 
added,  would  he  have  made  the  offer  did  he  not  feel  that 
in  similar  circumstances  he  would  have  freely  accepted  it 
himself.  To  show  his  confidence  he  enclosed  50Z.,  which 
he  expected  Carlyle  to  keep,  and  desired  only  to  hear  in 
reply  that  they  had  both  done  right. 

Carlyle  was  grateful,  but  he  was  proud.  He  did  not  at 
the  time,  or  perhaps  ever,  entirely  misconstrue  the  spirit 
in  which  Jeffrey  had  volunteered  to  assist  him ;  but  it  is 
hard,  perhaps  it  is  impossible,  for  a  man  to  receive  pecu¬ 
niary  help,  or,  even  the  offer  of  pecuniary  help,  from  a 
person  who  is  not  his  relation  without  some  sense  that  lie 
is  in  a  position  of  inferiority ;  and  there  is  force  in  the 
objection  to  accepting  favours  which  Carlyle  thus  de¬ 
scribes,  looking  back  over  forty  years  : — 

Jeffrey  generously  offered  to  confer  on  me  an  annuity  of  100/., 
which  annual  sum  had  it  fallen  on  me  from  the  clouds  would 
have  been  of  very  high  convenience  at  the  time,  but  which  I 


53 


Offer  of  an  Annuity . 

could  not  for  a  moment  have  dreamt  of  accepting  as  gift  or  sub¬ 
ventionary  help  from  any  fellow-mortal.  It  was  at  once  in  my 
handsomest,  gratefullest,  but  brief  and  conclusive  way  declined 
from  Jeffrey.  ‘Bepublican  equality,’  the  silently  fixed  law  of 
human  society  at  present :  each  man  to  live  on  his  own  resources, 
and  have  an  equality  of  economics  with  every  other  man ;  danger¬ 
ous,  and  not  possible  except  through  cowardice  or  folly  to  depart 
from  said  clear  rule  till  perhaps  a  better  era  rise  on  us  again. 

From  a  letter  written  at  tlie  time  there  appears  through 
his  genuine  gratitude  a  faint  but  perceptible  tinge  of 
wounded  feeling. 

Do  but  think  of  Jeffery  (he  wrote  to  his  brother,  who  was  really 
the  cause  that  he  was  in  difficulties).  A  letter  was  lying  here 
from  him  offering  in  the  daintiest  style  to  settle  a  hundred  a  year 
on  unworthy  me.  I  have  just  sent  the  meekest,  friendliest,  but 
most  emphatic  refusal  for  this  and  all  coming  times.  Do  not 
mention  this,  for  you  see  it  has  never  gone  beyond  the  length  of 
a  flourish  of  rhetoric,  and  is  scarcely  fit  to  mention.  Only  when¬ 
ever  we  think  of  our  Dean  of  the  Faculty  let  us  conceive  him  as 
a  multum  in  parvo  that  does  credit  to  Scotland  and  humanity. 

If  anyone  thinks  that  Carfyle  was  deficient  in  gratitude, 
let  him  remember  that  gratitude  is  but  one  of  many  feel¬ 
ings  which  are  equally  legitimate  and  reputable.  The 
gentleman  commoner  at  Pembroke  College  meant  only 
kindness  when  he  left  the  boots  at  Johnson’s  door ;  but 
Johnson,  so  far  from  being  grateful,  flung  the  boots  out  of 
the  window,  and  has  been  praised  by  all  mankind  for  it. 

From  his  brother  himself  Carlyle  was  careful  to  con¬ 
ceal  the  scanty  state  to  which  his  resources  were  reduced. 
From  his  notebook  I  find  that  at  one  time  in  1830  he  had 
but  five  pounds  left  with  which  to  face  the  world.  Yet  he 
still  wrote  cheerfully,  and  remittances  were  still  sent,  with 
no  word  except  of  kind  exhortation  to  exertion. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  London. 

Craigenputtock  :  February  11,  1830. 

Your  last  letter,  dear  brother,  though  but  of  a  sable  texture,  gave 
me  more  real  satisfaction  than  any  you  had  written.  It  exhibits 


54 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

you  in  a  figure  of  decided  action,  which  after  so  many  weeks  of 
storm-bound  inactivity  we  all  heartily  longed  and  prayed  to  see  you 
in.  Spite  of  all  difficulties,  and  these  are  too  many  and  too  heavy, 
I  now  doubt  not  a  moment  that  you  will  find  yourself  a  settle¬ 
ment  and  ultimately  prosper  there.  But  you  are  now  at  the  pinch 
of  the  game,  Jack,  and  must  not  falter.  Now  or  never !  Oh,  my 
dear  brother,  do  not  loiter,  do  not  linger,  trusting  to  the  chaj3ter  of 
chances  and  help  from  other  men.  Know  and  feel  that  you  are 
still  there  yourself ;  one  heart  and  head  that  will  never  desert  your 
interests.  I  know  the  many  difficulties  and  hesitations,  how 
wretched  you  are  while  others  only  fancy  you  sluggish.  But, 
thank  Heaven,  you  are  now  afoot,  fairly  diligent  and  intent.  What 
way  it  is  in  you  to  make  you  will  make ;  and  already  I  can  well 
believe  you  are  far  happier  ;  for  evil,  as  Jean  Paul  truly  says,  is 
like  a  nightmare — the  instant  you  begin  to  stir  yourself  it  is  al¬ 
ready  gone. 

Meanwhile  do  not  fret  yourself  over  much ;  a  period  of  proba¬ 
tion  and  adventure  is  appointed  for  most  men,  is  good  for  all  men. 
For  your  friends  especially — and  testifying  by  deeds  your  affec¬ 
tion  to  them — give  yourself  no  sorrow.  There  is  not  a  friend  you 
have,  Jack,  who  doubts  for  an  instant  of  your  affection  ;  neither  is 
their  wish  with  regard  to  you  to  see  you  rich  and  famous,  but 
to  see  you  self-collected,  diligent,  and  wise,  steering  your  way 
manfully  through  this  existence,  resolutely  and  with  clear  heart 
as  beseems  a  man,  as  beseems  such  a  man.  Whether  you  ride  in 
carriages  and  drink  Tokay,  and  have  crowds  to  follow  after  you, 
or  only  walk  in  Scotch  clogs  like  the  rest  of  us,  is  a  matter — so 
you  do  walk — of  far  smaller  moment.  ‘  Stout  heart  to  a  stay  brae  ’ 
then,  my  brave  boy !  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  to  frighten  a 
clear  heart.  They  can  refuse  you  guinea  fees,  but  the  godlike 
privilege  of  alleviating  wretchedness,  of  feeling  that  you  are  a 
true  man,  let  the  whole  host  of  gigmen  say  to  it  what  they  will, 
no  power  on  earth,  or  what  is  under  it,  can  take  from  you.  Oh 
then,  my  brother,  up  and  be  doing  !  Be  my  real  stout  brother  as 
of  old,  and  I  will  take  you  to  my  heart  and  name  you  proudly, 
though  in  the  world’s  eye  you  were  the  lowest  of  the  low.  What 
charm  is  in  a  name  ?  Physician,  surgeon,  apothecary — all  but 
quack — is  honourable.  There  are  plenty  of  poor  to  practise  on. 
If  you  gain  but  twenty  shillings  during  the  first  half  year  do  not 
despair.  As  for  the  poor  ten  pounds  you  get  from  me,  you  are 
heartily  welcome  to  it  thrice  over.  My  only  grief  is  that  in  the 


Hard  Times. 


55 


present  posture  of  affairs  I  can  furnish  nothing  more.  The  Blacks 
have  not  so  much  as  paid  me  yet.  However,  times  will  not  always 
be  so  bad,  and  while  I  have  help  to  give  depend  on  it  as  your  own. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

T.  0. 

The  Fates  this  winter  were  doing  their  very  worst  to 
Carlyle.  His  wife  had  escaped  harm  from  the  first  season 
at  Craigenputtock,  but  was  not  to  be  let  off  so  easily  a 
second  time.  All  went  well  till  the  close  of  December ;  a 
fat  goose  had  been  killed  for  the  new  year’s  feast ;  when 
the  snow  fell  and  the  frost  came,  and  she  caught  a  violent 
sore-throat,  which  threatened  to  end  in  diphtheria.  There 
was  no  doctor  nearer  than  Dumfries,  and  the  road  from 
the  valley  was  hardly  passable.  Mrs.  Welsh  struggled  up 
from  Templand  through  the  snow-drifts ;  care  and  nurs¬ 
ing  kept  the  enemy  off,  and  the  immediate  danger  in  a  few 
days  was  over ;  but  the  shock  had  left  behind  it  a  sense  of 
insecurity,  and  the  unsuitableness  of  such  a  home  for  so 
frail  a  frame  became  more  than  ever  apparent.  The  old 
father  at  Scotsbrig  fell  ill,  too,  this  January  and  showed 
signs  of  breaking,  and  beside  the  illness  of  those  dear  to 
him,  the  repose  of  the  country  was  startled  by  more  than 
one  frightful  tragedy.  The  death  of  a  Craigenputtock 
neighbour  affected  Carlyle  much. 

Bob  Clerk  of  Craigmony  (he  wrote  to  his  brother  John)  had 
been  drinking  at  Minny  hire,  perhaps  the  day  you  were  departing. 
He  tumbled  off  his  chair  with  a  groan,  gave  a  snort  or  two  on  the 
floor,  and  was  by  his  companions  reckoned  to  be  dead  drunk.  At 
their  convenient  leisure  they  hoisted  him  and  his  boy,  also  drunk, 
into  the  cart,  which  Johnny  McCawe’s  ‘  lassie  ’  (happily  sober) 
drove  home  under  cloud  of  night  to  his  aunt.  Bob  spoke  none, 
moved  none,  and  his  aunt  carried  him  in  on  her  back  and  laid  him 
on  the  bed,  and  after  hours  of  sedulous  ministering  discovered 
him  to  be — dead !  Bob  was  once  a  man  that  could  have  tuned 
markets  with  his  own  purse,  and  he  would  not  ‘  taste  ’  in  those 
days.  But  he  failed  in  trade  twice ;  since  then  has  led  a  strange 


56 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

wet  and  dry  existence,  drunk  in  all  corners  of  Britain  from  Sussex 
to  Sutherland,  and  so  found  his  end  at  length.  Is  it  not  a  wild 
world  this  ?  Who  made  it  ?  who  governs  it  ?  who  gets  good  of  it  ? 
Without  faith  I  think  a  man  were  forced  to  be  an  atheist. 

The  next  letter,  one  of  the  very  few  which  Carlyle  ever 
addressed  to  a  public  journal,  explains  itself. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  ‘ Dumfries  and  Galloway  Courier .’ 

April  12,  1830. 

Mr.  Editor, — Some  time  last  autumn  a  ‘fatal  accident’  stood 
recorded  in  the  newspapers,  of  a  young  man  having  come  by  his 
death  at  a  place  called  Knockhill,  near  Ecclefechan,  in  this  county, 
under  somewhat  singular  circumstances.  The  young  man,  it  ap- 
XDeared,  had  been  engaged  in  some  courtship  with  one  of  the  maid¬ 
servants  of  the  house  ;  had  come  that  night  to  see  her  in  the  fash¬ 
ion  common,  or  indeed  universal,  with  men  of  his  station  in  that 
quarter,  was  overheard  by  the  butler,  was  challenged,  pursued, 
and,  refusing  to  answer  any  interrogatory,  but  hastening  only  to 
escape,  was  shot  dead  by  him  on  the  spot.  No  man  who  has  lived 
three  weeks  in  the  south  of  Scotland  can  be  ignorant  that  such 
visits  occur  nightly  everywhere,  and  have  occurred  from  time  im¬ 
memorial.  It  is  a  custom  by  many  blamed,  by  some  applauded. 
In  the  romantic  spirit  sometimes  displayed  in  it ;  in  the  long  jour- 
neyings  and  wistful  waitings  for  an  interview  ;  in  the  faithfulness 
with  which  the  rustic  wooer  at  all  hazards  keeps  his  secret  which  is 
also  another’s,  Dr.  Currie  traces  among  our  peasants  some  resem¬ 
blance  to  the  gallantry  of  a  Spanish  Cavalier.  In  company  with 
the  butler  so  fatally  watchful  on  this  occasion  were  two  men  to 
have  assisted  him  in  any  defence,  in  any  seizure.  Whether  he 
knew  the  individual  fugitive,  then  within  some  feet  of  his  gun, 
is  uncertain ;  that  he  guessed  his  errand  there  is  scarcely  so. 

.  Enough  the  poor  young  man  who  had  refused  to  speak  fell  to  th£ 
ground  exclaiming  only,  Oh,  lasses,  lasses  !  ”  and  in  a  few  instants 
was  no  more. 

Ready  or  not  ready,  no  delay  ! 

On  to  his  Judge’s  bar  he  must  away. 

Last  week  I  looked  over  your  circuit  intelligence  with  some  anx¬ 
iety  to  see  how  this  case  had  been  disposed  of,  but  unfortunately 
without  effect.  There  was  no  notice  of  it  there.  Interesting 
trials  enough  we  have  had,  trials  for  attempting  to  shoot  rabbits, 


57 


letter  of  6  Vox? 

for  writing  marriage  lines,  for  stealing  a  pair  of  breeches ;  but  for 
the  ‘  sheclder  of  blood  ’  there  was  no  trial.  To  none  of  his  Maj¬ 
esty’s  justiciars,  it  would  seem,  has  any  hint  of  that  transaction 
been  communicated.  Whether  it  was  ever  so  much  as  glanced  at, 
much  less  thoroughly  sifted  by  any  official  personage,  high  or  low, 
appears  not  from  the  record — nowhere  the  smallest  whisper  of  it. 

May  I  ask  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  wonderful  how  this  has 
been?  Is  it  lawful,  then,  to  put  to  death  any  individual  whom 
you  may  find  flirting  with  your  maid  after  ten  at  night  ?  Nay,  is 
it  so  lawful  that  no  inquiry  can  be  needed  on  the  subject ;  but  the 
whole  matter  may  be  hushed  up  into  insignificance,  with  a  few 
bows  or  shrugs  ?  If  we  have  an  Act  of  Parliament  to  that  pur¬ 
port  it  is  wTell ;  only  let  us  understand  clearly  how  it  runs.  May 
any  British  subject,  the  poorest  cotter,  keep  his  loaded  gun  for 
our  rural  Celadons,  and  shoot  them  with  less  ceremony  than  he 
dare  do  snipes  ?  Or  is  it  only  men  possessing  certain  ‘  plough- 
gates  of  land  ’  that  enjoy  such  a  privilege  ?  If  so,  might  not  it  be 
well  that  they  were  bound  to  take  out  some  licence  or  game  cer¬ 
tificate  first  ? 

Of  your  Public  Prosecutor  I  knowT  not  even  the  name.  The 
master  of  that  Knockhill  mansion,  the  unhappy  creature  his  ser¬ 
vant,  are,  if  possible,  still-  more  unknown  to  me.  Hatred  of  them, 
love  of  them,  fear  or  hope  of  them,  have  I  none.  Neither  say  I, 
nor  know  I,  whether  in  that  act  the  wretched  homicide  did  right 
or  did  wrong.  But  in  the  name  of  God,  let  all  official  courtesies 
and  hole  and  corner  work  be  far  from  us  when  ‘  man’s  blood  ’  is  on 
our  floor !  Let  the  light  in  on  it,  the  clear  eye  of  public  inquiry, 
or  the  spot  will  blacken  there  for  ever.  Let  the  law  with  its  fif¬ 
teen  good  men  and  true  speak  forth  an  open  verdict,  that  the 
muttered  curses  of  a  whole  district  may  cease. 


Vox. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


A.D.  1830.  MT.  35. 

The  outward  life  of  a  man  of  letters  is  in  his  works.  But 
in  his  works  he  shows  only  so  much  of  himself  as  he  con¬ 
siders  that  the  world  will  be  benefited  or  interested  by 
seeing ;  or  rather,  if  he  is  true  artist  he  does  not  show 
his  own  self  at  all.  The  more  excellent  the  thing  produced, 
the  more  it  resembles  a  work  of  nature  in  which  the  crea¬ 
tion  is  alone  perceived,  while  the  creating  hand  is  hidden 
in  mystery.  Homer  and  Shakespeare  are  the  greatest  of 
poets,  but  of  the  men  Homer  and  Shakespeare  we  know 
next  to  nothing.  £  The  blind  old  bard  of  Ohio’s  rocky  isle  ’ 
has  been  even  criticised  out  of  existence,  and  ingenious  in¬ 
quirers  have  been  found  to  maintain  that  the  Stratford 
player  furnished  but  a  convenient  name,  and  that  the  true 
authors  of  ‘  Henry  IV.’  or  £  Plamlet,’  were  Queen  Eliza¬ 
beth’s  courtiers  and  statesmen. 

Men  of  genius  do  not  care  to  hang  their  hearts  upon 
their  sleeve  for  daws  to  peck  at ;  yet  if  they  have  left  any¬ 
where  their  written  conversations  with  themselves,  if  they 
have  opened  a  door  into  the  laboratory  where  the  creative 
force  can  be  seen  in  its  operation,  and  the  man  himself 
can  be  made  known  to  us  as  he  appeared  in  undress  and  in 
his  own  eyes,  the  public  who  are  interested  in  his  writings 
may  count  it  as  a  piece  of  rare  good  fortune,  No  man 
who  has  any  vital  force  in  him  ever  lies  to  himself.  He 
may  assume  a  disguise  to  others  ;  but  the  first  condition  of 
success  is  that  he  be  true  to  his  own  soul  and  has  looked 
his  own  capacities  and  his  own  faults  fairly  in  the  face.  I 


59 


Extracts  from  Journal. 

have  already  given  some  extracts  from  Carlyle’s  Journal. 
The  entries  are  irregular,  sometimes  with  a  blank  of 
several  years.  For  1829  and  1830  it  is  unusually  ample, 
and  that  the  story  may  not  be  interrupted  I  place  before 
the  reader  collectively  the  picture  which  it  gives  of  Carlyle’s 
mind.  Some  incidents  are  alluded  to  which  have  still  to 
be  related.  The  reader  will  learn  what  he  may  find  want¬ 
ing  in  the  chapter  which  will  follow. 

Extracts  from  a  Diary  Ivept  at  Ceaigexputtock. 

1829—1830. 

February ,  1829. — Has  tlie  mind  its  cycles  and  seasons  like  na¬ 
ture,  varying  from  the  fermentation  of  werden  to  the  clearness  of 
seyn,  and  this  again  and  again,  so  that  the  history  of  a  man  is  like 
the  history  of  the  world  he  lives  in  ?  In  my  own  case  I  have 
traced  two  or  three  such  vicissitudes.  At  present,  if  I  mistake  not, 
there  is  some  such  thing  at  hand  for  me. 

Above  all  things  I  should  like  to  know  England;  the  essence  of 
social  life  in  this  same  little  island  of  ours.  But  how?  No  one 
that  I  speak  to  can  throw  light  on  it ;  not  he  that  has  worked  and 
lived  in  the  midst  of  it  for  half  a  century.  The  blind  following 
the  blind  !  Yet  each  cries  out,  ‘What  glorious  sunshine  we  have  !  ’ 
The  ‘old  literature’  only  half  contents  me.  It  is  ore  and  not 
metal.  I  have  not  even  a  history  of  the  country  half  precise  enough. 
With  Scotland  it  is  little  better.  To  me  there  is  nothing  poetical 
in  Scotland  but  its  religion.  Perhaps  because  I  know  nothing 
else  so  well.  England,  with  its  old  chivalry,  art,  and  ‘  creature 
comfort,’  looks  beautiful,  but  only  as  a  cloud  country,  the  dis¬ 
tinctive  features  of  which  are  all  melted  into  one  gay  sunny  mass 
of  hues.  After  all  we  are  a  world  ‘within  ourselves,’  a  ‘self- 
contained  house.’ 

The  English  have  never  had  an  artist  except  in  poetry :  no  mu¬ 
sician  ;  no  painter.  Purcell  (was  he  a  native  ?)  and  Hogarth  are 
not  exceptions,  or  only  such  as  confirm  the  rule. 

He  who  would  understand  England  must  understand  her 
Church — for  that  is  half  of  the  whole  matter.  Am  I  not  con- 


60 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

scions  of  a  prejudice  on  that  side  ?  Does  not  the  very  sight  of  a 
shovel  hat  in  some  degree  indispose  me  to  the  wearer  thereof  ? 
Shut  up  my  heart  against  him?  This  must  be  looked  into.  With¬ 
out  love  there  is  no  knowledge. 

Do  I  not  also  partly  despise,  partly  hate,  the  aristocracy  of 
Scotland?  I  fear  I  do,  though  under  cover.  This  too  should  be 
remedied.  On  the  whole  I  know  little  of  the  Scottish  gentleman, 
and  more  than  enough  of  the  Scottish  gigman.  All  are  not  mere 
rent-gatherers  and  game-preservers. 

Have  the  Scottish  gentry  lost  their  national  character  of  late 
years,  and  become  mere  danglers  in  the  train  of  the  wealthier 
English  ?  Scott  has  seen  certain  characters  among  them  of  which 
I  hitherto  have  not  heard  of  any  existing  specimen. 

Is  the  true  Scotchman  the  peasant  and  yeoman  ;  chiefly  the 
former  ? 

Shall  we  actually  go  and  drive  through  England,  to  see  it? 
Mail  coaches  are  a  mere  mockerv. 

t J 

A  national  character,  that  is,  the  description  of  one,  tends  to 
realise  itself,  as  some  prophecies  have  produced  their  own  fulfil¬ 
ment.  Tell  a  man  that  he  is  brave,  and  you  help  him  to  become 
so.  The  national  character  hangs  like  a  pattern  in  every  head ; 
each  sensibly  or  insensibly  shapes  himself  thereby,  and  feels 
pleased  when  he  can  in  any  manner  realise  it. 

Is  the  characteristic  strength  of  England  its  love  of  justice,  its 
deep-seated  universally  active  sense  of  fair  play  ?  On  many  points 
it  seems  to  be  a  very  stupid  people  ;  but  seldom  a  hide-bound, 
bigoted,  altogether  unmanageable  and  unaddressable  people. 

The  Scotch  have  more  enthusiasm  and  more  consideration  ;  that 
is,  at  once  more  sail  and  ballast.  They  seem  to  have  a  deepei'  and 
richer  character  as  a  nation.  The  old  Scottish  music,  our  songs, 
are  a  highly  distinctive  feature. 

Read  Xovalis’  ‘  Schriften  ’  for  the  second  time  some  weeks  ago, 
and  wrote  a  review  of  them.  A  strange  mvstic  unfathomable 
book,  but  full  of  matter  for  most  earnest  meditation.  What  is  to 
become  (next)  of  the  world  and  the  sciences  thereof  ?  Rather, 


61 


Extracts  from  Journal. 

what  is  to  become  of  thee  and  thy  sciences  ?  Thou  longest  to  act 
among  thy  fellow  men,  and  canst  yet  scarcely  breathe  among 
them. 

Friedrich  Sclilegel  dead  at  Dresden  on  the  9th  of  January. 
Poor  Schlegel,  what  a  toilsome  seeking  was  tliine  !  Thou  know- 
est  now  whether  thou  hast  found — or  thou  carest  not  for  knowing ! 

What  am  I  to  say  of  Voltaire  ?  His  name  has  stood  at  the  top 
of  a  sheet  for  three  days  and  no  other  word !  Writing  is  a  dread¬ 
ful  labour,  yet  not  so  dreadful  as  idleness. 

Every  living  man  is  a  visible  mystery ;  he  walks  between  two 
eternities  and  two  infinitudes.  Were  we  not  blind  as  moles  we 
should  value  our  humanity  at  o c  ,  and  our  rank,  influence,  &c. 
(the  trappings  of  our  humanity)  at  0.  Say  I  am  a  man,  and  you 
say  all.  Whether  king  or  tinker  is  a  mere  appendix. — ‘Very 
true,  Mr.  Carlyle,  but  then - ’  we  must  believe  truth  and  prac¬ 

tice  error? 

Pray  that  your  eyes  be  opened,  that  you  may  see  what  is  before 
them !  The  whole  world  is  built,  as  it  were,  on  light  and  glory — 
only  our  spiritual  eye  must  discern  it ;  to  the  bodily  eye  Self  is  as 
a  perpetual  blinder,  and  we  see  nothing  but  darkness  and  contra¬ 
diction. 

Luther,  says  Melanclitlion,  would  often,  though  in  robust 
health,  go  about  for  four  dat/s  eating  and  drinking — nothing ! 
‘  Vidi  continuis  qua.tuor  diebus,  cum  quidem  recte  valeret,  pror- 
sus  nihil  edentem  aut  bibentem.  Vidi  ssepe  alias  multis  diebus 
quotidie  exiguo  pane  et  lialece  contentum  esse.’  Content  for 
many  days  with  a  little  piece  of  bread  and  herring.  0  tempora  ! 
O  mores  ! 

Luthers  character  appears  to  me  the  most  worth  discussing  of 
all  modern  men’s.  He  is,  to  say  it  in  a  word,  a  great  man  in  every 
sense ;  has  the  soul  at  once  of  a  conqueror  and  a  poet.  His  at¬ 
tachment  to  music  is  to  me  a  very  interesting  circumstance;  it 
was  the  channel  for  many  of  his  finest  emotions,  for  which  words, 
even  words  of  prayer,  were  but  an  ineffectual  exponent.  Is  it 
true  that  he  did  leave  Wittenberg  for  Worms  with  nothing  but 
his  Bible  and  his  flute  ?  There  is  no  scene  in  European  history 
so  .splendid  and  significant.  I  have  long  had  a  sort  of  notion  to 


62 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

write  some  life  or  characteristic  of  Luther.  A  picture  of  the  pub¬ 
lic  thought  in  those  days,  and  of  this  strong  lofty  mind  overturn¬ 
ing  and  new  moulding  it,  would  be  a  fine  affair  in  many  senses. 
It  would  require  immense  research.  Alas  !  alas  !  when  are  we  to 
have  another  Luther?  Such  men  are  needed  from  century  to 
century ;  there  seldom  has  been  more  need  of  one  than  now. 

Wrote  a  paper  on  Voltaire  for  the  ‘  Foreign  Review.’  It  ap¬ 
pears  to  have  given  some,  very  slight,  satisfaction ;  pieces  of  it 
breathe  afar  off  the  right  spirit  of  composition.  When  shall  I 
attain  to  write  wholly  in  that  spirit  ? 

Paper  on  Novalis  for  F.  R.  just  published.  Written  last  Janu¬ 
ary  amid  the  frosts.  Generally  poor.  Novalis  is  an  anti-meclian- 
ist — a  deep  man — the  most  perfect  of  modern  spirit-seers.  I 
thank  him  for  somewhat. 

August  5,  1829. — Also  just  finished  an  article  on  the  ‘  Signs  of 
the  Times’  for  the  ‘Edinburgh  Review,’  as  Jeffrey’s  last  speech. 
Bad  in  general,  but  the  best  I  could  make  it  under  such  incubus 
influences. 

Every  age  appears  surprising  and  full  of  vicissitudes  to  those 
that  live  therein — as  indeed  it  is  and  must  be — vicissitudes  from 
nothingness  to  existence ;  and  from  the  tumultuous  Wonders  of 
existence  forward  to  the  still  wonders  of  death. 

% 

Politics  are  not  our  life — which  is  the  practice  and  contempla¬ 
tion  of  goodness — but  only  the  house  wherein  that  life  is  led.  Sad 
duty  that  lies  on  us  to  parget  and  continually  repair  our  houses, 
saddest  of  all  when  it  becomes  our  sole  duty. 

An  institution,  a  law  of  any  kind,  may  became  a  deserted  edifice ; 
the  walls  standing,  no  life  going  on  within  but  that  of  bats,  owls, 
and  unclean  creatures.  It  will  then  be  pulled  down  if  it  stand 
interrupting  any  thoroughfare.  If  it  do  not  so  stand,  people  may 
leave  it  alone  till  a  grove  of  natural  wood  grow  round  it ;  and  no 
eye  but  that  of  the  adventurous  antiquarian  may  know  of  its  exist¬ 
ence,  such  a  tangle  of  brush  is  to  be  struggled  through  before  it 
can  be  come  at  and  viewed. 

All  language  but  that  concerning  sensual  objects  is  or  has  been 
figurative.  Prodigious  influence  of  metaphors  !  Never  saw  into 


63 


Extracts  f  rom  Journal. 

it  till  lately ;  a  truly  useful  and  philosophical  work  would  be  a 
good  ‘  Essay  on  Metaphors.’ 

Begin  to  think  more  seriously  of  discussing  Martin  Luther. 
The  only  inspiration  I  know  of  is  that  of  genius.  It  was,  is,  and 
will  alwavs  be  of  a  divine  character. 

Wonderful  universe  !  Were  our  eyes  but  opened,  what  a  ‘  se¬ 
cret  ’  were  it  that  we  daily  see  and  handle  without  heed ! 

Understanding  is  to  reason  as  the  talent  of  a  beaver  (which  can 
build  houses,  and  uses  its  tail  for  a  trowel)  to  the  genius  of  a 
prophet  and  poet.  Reason  is  all  but  extinct  in  this  age ;  it  can 
never  be  altogether  extinguished. 

‘  Das  Seligseyn  ist  um  eine  Ewigkeit  alter  als  das  Yerdammt- 
seyn.’ — Jean  Paul. 

‘  The  mixture  of  those  things  by  speech  which  by  nature  are 
divided  is  the  mother  of  all  error.’ — Hooker. 

Error  of  political  economists  about  improving  waste  lands  as 
compared  with  manufacturing.  The  manufacture  is  worn  and 
done.  The  machine  itself  dies.  The  improved  land  remains  an 
addition  to  the  estate  for  ever.  What  is  the  amount  of  this  error? 
I  see  not,  but  reckon  it  something  considerable. 

Is  it  true  that  of  all  quacks  that  ever  quacked  (boasting  them¬ 
selves  to  be  somebody)  in  any  age  of  the  world,  the  political  econo¬ 
mists  of  this  age  are,  for  their  intrinsic  size,  the  loudest  ?  Mercy 
on  us,  what  a  quack-quacking ;  and  their  egg,  even  if  not  a  wind 
one,  is  of  value  simply  one  halfpenny. 

Their  whole  j)hilosopliy  (!)  is  an  arithmetical  computation  per¬ 
formed  in  words  ;  requires,  therefore,  the  intellect,  not  of  Socrates 
or  Shakespeare,  but  of  Cocker  or  Dilworth.  Even  if  this  were 
right — which  it  scarcely  ever  is,  for  they  miss  this  or  the  other 
item,  do  as  they  will,  and  must  return  to  practice  and  take  the 
low  posteriori  road  after  all — the  question  of  money-making,  even 
of  national  money-making,  is  not  a  high  but  a  low  one  ;  as  they 
treat  it,  among  the  highest.  Could  they  tell  us  how  wealth  is  and 
should  be  distributed ,  it  were  something  ;  but  they  do  not  attempt 
it. 


64 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Political  philosophy  ?  Political  philosophy  should  be  a  scien¬ 
tific  revelation  of  the  whole  secret  mechanism  whereby  men  co¬ 
here  together  in  society  ;  should  tell  us  what  is  meant  by  ‘  coun¬ 
try  ’  ( pcitria ),  by  what  causes  men  are  happy,  moral,  religious,  or 
the  contrary.  Instead  of  all  which  it  tells  us  how  ‘  flannel  jackets’ 
are  exchanged  for  ‘  pork  hams,’  and  speaks  much  about  ‘  the  land 
last  taken  into  cultivation.’  They  are  the  hodmen  of  the  intel¬ 
lectual  edifice,  who  have  got  upon  the  wall  and  will  insist  on  build¬ 
ing  as  if  they  were  masons. 

The  Utilitarians  are  the  ‘  crowning  mercy  ’  of  this  age,  the  sum¬ 
mit  (now  first  appearing  to  view7)  of  a  mass  of  tendencies  wThich 
stretch  downwards  and  spread  sidewards  over  the  wdiole  intellect 
and  morals  of  the  time.  By-and-by  the  clouds  will  disperse,  and 
wre  shall  see  it  all  in  dead  nakedness  and  brutishness;  our  Utili¬ 
tarians  will  pass  away  with  a  great  noise.  You  think  not  ?  Can 
the  reason  of  man  be  trodden  under  foot  for  ever  by  his  sense  ? 
Can  the  brute  in  us  prevail  for  ever  over  the  angel  ? 

The  Devil  has  his  elect. 

v 

‘Pero  digan  lo  que  quisieren  los  liistoriadores  ;  que  desnudo 
naci,  desnudo  mi  hallo,  ni  pierdo  ni  gano,  aunque  por  verme 
puesto  in  libros  y  andar  por  ese  mundo  de  mano  en  mano,  no  se 
me  da  un  trigo,  que  digan  de  mi  todo  lo  que  quisieren,’  says  San- 
clio. — ‘  Quixote,’  iv.  117. 

January  14,  1830. — Does  it  seem  hard  to  thee  that  thou  shouldst 
toil  in  dulness,  sickness,  isolation?  Whose  lot  is  not  even  thus? 
Toil  then,  and  tais-toi. 

Either  I  am  degenerating  into  a  caput  mortuum ,  and  shall  never 
think  another  reasonable  thought ;  or  some  new7  and  deeper  view 
x>f  the  wrorld  is  about  to  arise  in  me.  Pray  heaven  the  latter  !  It 
is  dreadful  to  live  without  vision.  When  there  is  no  light  the 
people  perish. 

« 

With  considerable  sincerity  I  can  pray  at  this  moment,  ‘  Grant 
me,  O  Father,  enough  of  wisdom  to  live  w7ell ;  prosperity  to  live 
easily  grant  me  or  not,  as  Thou  seest  best.’  A  poor,  faint  prayer 
^  as  such,  yet  surely  a  kind  of  wish,  as  indeed  it  has  generally  been 
'  with  me ;  and  now  a  kind  of  comfort  to  feel  it  still  in  my  otherwise 
ftoo  withered  heart. 


Extracts  from  Journal.  65 

I  am  a  ‘  dismembered  limb,’  and  feel  it  again  too  deeply.  Was 
I  ever  other  ?  Stand  to  it  tightly,  man,  and  do  thy  utmost.  Thou 
hast  little  or  no  hold  on  the  world ;  promotion  will  never  reach 
thee,  nor  true  fellowship  with  any  active  body  of  men ;  but  hast 
thou  not  still  a  hold  on  thyself?  Ja,  beym  Himmel ! 

Beligion,  as  Novalis  thinks,  is  a  social  thing.  Without  a  church 
there  can  be  little  or  no  religion.  The  action  of  mind  on  mind  is 
mystical,  infinite ;  religion,  worship  can  hardly  (perhaps  not  at 
all)  support  itself  without  this  aid.  The  derivation  of  Schwar - 
merey  indicates  some  notion  of  this  in  the  Germans.  To  schwar- 
men  (to  be  enthusiastic)  means,  says  Coleridge,  to  swarm ,  to  crowd 
together  and  excite  one  another. 

What  is  the  English  of  all  quarrels  that  have  been,  are,  or  can 
be,  between  man  and  man  ?  Simply  this.  Sir,  you  are  taking 
more  than  your  share  of  pleasure  in  this  world,  something  from 
my  share ;  and  by  the  gods  you  shall  not — nay,  I  will  fight  you 
rather.  Alas  !  and  the  whole  lot  to  be  divided  is  such  a  beggarly 
account  of  empty  boxes,  truly  a  ‘  feast  of  shells,’  not  eggs,  for  the 
yolks  have  all  been  blown  out  of  them.  Not  enough  to  fill  half  a 
stomach,  and  the  whole  human  species  famishing  to  be  at  them. 
Better  we  should  say  to  our  brother,  ‘Take  it,  poor  fellow;  take 
that  larger  share  which  I  reckon  mine,  and  which  thou  so  wantest ; 
take  it  with  a  blessing.  Would  to  Heaven  I  had  but  enough  for 
thee  !  ’  This  is  the  moral  of  the  Christian  religion  ;  how  easy  to 
write,  how  hard  to  practise. 

* 

I  have  now  almost  done  with  the  Germans.  Having  seized 
their  opinions,  I  must  turn  me  to  inquire  how  true  are  they  ?  That 
truth  is  in  them  no  lover  of  truth  will  doubt ;  but  how  much  ? 
And  after  all  one  needs  an  intellectual  scheme  (or  ground  plan  of 
the  universe)  drawn  with  one’s  own  instruments.  I  think  I  have 
got  rid  of  materialism.  Matter  no  longer  seems  to  me  so  ancient, 
so  unsubduable,  so  certain  and  palpable  as  mind.  /  am  mind ; 
whether  matter  or  not  I  know  not,  and  can  not.  Glimpses  into 
the  spiritual  universe  I  have  sometimes  had  (about  the  true  nature 
of  religion),  the  possibility  after  all  of  supernatural  (really  natural) 
influences.  Would  they  could  but  stay  with  me,  and  ripen  into  a 
perfect  view. 

Miracle  ?  What  is  a  miracle  ?  Can  there  be  a  thing  more  mi* 
Vol.  II.— 5 


66 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

raculous  than  any  other  thing  ?  I  myself  am  a  standing  wonder. 
It  is  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  that  giveth  us  understanding. 

What  is  poetry  ?  Do  I  really  love  poetry  ?  I  sometimes  fancy 
almost  not.  The  jingle  of  maudlin  persons  with  their  mere  (even 
genuine)  sensibility  is  unspeakably  fatiguing  to  me.  My  greatly 
most  delightful  reading  is  where  some  Goethe  musically  teaches 
me.  Nay,  any  fact  relating  especially  to  man  is  still  valuable  and 
pleasing.  My  memory,  which  was  one  of  the  best,  has  failed  sadly 
of  late  years  (principally  the  last  two) ;  yet  not  so  much  by  defect 
in  the  faculty,  I  should  say,  as  by  want  of  earnestness  in  using  it. 
I  attend  to  few  things  as  I  was  wont ;  few  things  have  any  interest 
for  me.  I  live  in  a  sort  of  waking  dream.  Doubtful  it  is  in  the 
highest  degree  whether  ever  I  shall  make  men  hear  my  voice  to 
any  purpose  or  not.  Certain  only  that  I  shall  be  a  failure  if  I  do 
not,  and  unhappy ;  nay,  unhappy  enough  (that  is,  with  suffering 
enough)  even  if  I  do.  My  own  talent  I  cannot  in  the  remotest 
degree  attempt  at  estimating.  Something  superior  often  does 
seem  to  lie  in  me,  and  hitherto  the  world  has  been  very  kind  ;  but 
many  things  inferior  also  ;  so  that  I  can  strike  no  balance.  Hang 
it,  try  and  leave  this  Grubeln.  What  ice  have  done  is  the  only  mirror 
that  can  show  us  what  we  are.  One  great  desideratum  in  every 
society  is  a  man  to  hold  his  peace. 

Oh  Time,  how  thou  fliest ; 

False  heart,  how  thou  liest ; 

Leave  chattering  and  fretting, 

Betake  thee  to  doing  and  getting. 

April  17. — Got  dreadfully  ill  on  with  a  most  tremendous  specu¬ 
lation  on  history,  intended  first  as  an  introduction  to  my  German 
work,  then  found  at  last  that  it  would  not  do  there,  and  so  cut  it 
out  after  finishing  it,  and  gave  it  to  my  wife.  I  carry  less  weight 
now,  and  skim  more  smoothly  along.  Why  cannot  I  write  books 
(of  that  kind)  as  I  write  letters  ?  The}''  are  and  will  be  of  only 
temporary  use. 

Francis  Jeffrey  the  other  week  offered  me  a  hundred  a  year, 
having  learned  that  this  sum  met  my  yearly  wants.  He  did  it 
neatly  enough,  and  I  had  no  doubt  of  his  sincerity.  What  a  state 
of  society  is  this  in  which  a  man  would  rather  be  shot  through 
the  heart  twenty  times  than  do  both  himself  and  his  neighbour  a 
real  ease.  How  separate  pride  from  the  natural  necessary  feeling 
of  self?  It  is  ill  to  do,  yet  may  be  done.  On  the  whole  I  have 


Extracts  from  Journal.  67 

been  somewhat  in  the  wrong  about  ‘  independence ;  ’  man  is  not 
independent  of  his  brother.  Twenty  men  united  in  love  can  ac¬ 
complish  much  that  to  two  thousand  isolated  men  were  impossi¬ 
ble.  Know  this,  and  know  also  that  thou  hast  a  power  of  thy  own, 
and  standest  with  a  Heaven  above  even  Thee.  And  so  im  Teufel’s 
Namen,  get  to  tliy  work  then. 

June  8. — Am  about  beginning  the  second  volume  of  that  German 
Lit.  History ;  dreadfully  lazy  to  start.  I  know  and  feel  that  it 
will  be  a  trivial  insignificant  book,  do  what  I  can  ;  yet  the  writing 
of  it  sickens  me  and  inflames  my  nerves  as  if  it  were  a  poem  ! 
Were  I  done  with  this,  I  will  endeavour  to  compile  no  more. 

Is  not  the  Christian  religion,  is  not  every  truly  vital  interest  of 
mankind  (?),  a  thing  that  grows?  Like  some  Nile  whose  springs 
are  indeed  hidden,  but  whose  full  flood,  bringing  gladness  and 
fertility  from  its  mysterious  mountains,  is  seen  and  welcomed  by 
all. 

Received  about  four  weeks  ago  a  strange  letter  from  some  Saint 
Simonians  at  Paris,  grounded  on  my  little  ‘  Signs  of  the  Times.’ 1 
These  people  have  strange  notions,  not  without  a  large  spicing  of 
truth,  and  are  themselves  among  the  Signs.  I  shall  feel  curious 
to  know  what  becomes  of  them.  La  classe  la  plus  pauvre  is  evi¬ 
dently  in  the  way  of  rising  from  its  present  deepest  abasement. 
In  time  it  is  likely  the  world  will  be  better  divided,  and  he  that 
has  the  toil  of  ploughing  will  have  the  first  cut  at  the  reaping. 

A  man  with  200,000/.  a  year  eats  the  whole  fruit  of  6666  men’s 
labour  through  a  year ;  for  you  can  get  a  stout  spadesman  to  work 
and  maintain  himself  for  the  sum  of  30/.  Thus  we  have  private 
individuals  whose  wages  are  equal  to  the  wages  of  seven  or  eight 
thousand  other  individuals.  What  do  those  highly  beneficed  in¬ 
dividuals  do  to  society  for  their  wages  ? — Kill  partridges.  Can  this 
last?  No,  by  the  soul  that  is  in  man  it  cannot,  and  will  not,  and 
shall  not ! 

Our  political  economists  should  collect  statistical  facts ;  such 
as,  ‘  What  is  the  lowest  sum  a  man  can  live  on  in  various  coun¬ 
tries  ?  What  is  the  highest  he  gets  to  live  on  ?  How  many  peo¬ 
ple  work  with  their  hands  ?  How  many  with  their  heads  ?  How 
many  not  at  all  ?  and  innumerable  such.  What  all  want  to  know 

1  Just  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  reprinted  in  the  Miscellanies. 


68 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

is  the  condition  of  our  fellow  men ;  and  strange  to  say  it  is  the 
thing  least  of  all  understood,  or  to  be  understood  as  matters  go. 
The  present  ‘  science  ’  of  political  economy  requires  far  less  intel¬ 
lect  than  successful  bellows  mending ;  and  perhaps  does  less  good, 
if  we  deduct  all  the  evil  it  brings  us.  Though  young  it  already 
carries  marks  of  decrepitude — a  speedy  and  soft  death  to  it. 

You  see  two  men  fronting  each  other.  One  sits  dressed  in  red 
cloth,  the  other  stands  dressed  in  threadbare  blue ;  the  first  says 
to  the  other,  ‘  Be  hanged  and  anatomised  !  ’  and  it  is  forthwith  put 
in  execution,  till  Number  Two  is  a  skeleton.  Whence  comes  it  ? 
These  men  have  no  physical  hold  of  each  other ;  they  are  not  in 
contact.  Each  of  the  bailiffs,  &c.,  is  included  in  his  own  skin,  and 
not  hooked  to  any  other.  The  reason  is,  Man  is  a  spirit.  Invisi¬ 
ble  influences  run  through  Society,  and  make  it  a  mysterious 
wThole  full  of  life  and  inscrutable  activities  and  capabilities.  Our 
individual  existence  is  mystery  ;  our  social,  still  more. 

Nothing  can  act  but  where  it  is  ?  True — if  you  will — only 
where  is  it  ?  Is  not  the  distant,  the  dead,  whom  I  love  and  sorrow 
for  here,  in  the  genuine  spiritual  sense,  as  really  as  the  table  I 
now  write  on  ?  Space  is  a  mode  of  our  sense,  so  is  time  (this  I 
only  half  understand) ;  we  are — we  know  not  what — light  sparkles 
floating  in  the  aether  of  the  Divinity !  So  that  this  solid  world 
after  all  is  but  an  air-image  ;  our  me  is  the  only  reality,  and  all  is 
godlike  or  God. 

Thou  wilt  have  no  mystery  and  mysticism  ;  wilt  live  in  the  day¬ 
light  (rushlight?)  of  truth,  and  see  thy  world  and  understand  it? 
Nay,  thou  wilt  laugh  at  all  that  believe  in  a  mystery ;  to  whom 
the  universe  is  an  oracle  and  temple,  as  well  as  a  kitchen  and  cat¬ 
tle-stall  ?  Armer  Teufel !  Doth  not  thy  cow  calve,  doth  not  thy 
bull  gender?  Nay,  peradventure,  dost  not  thou  thyself  gender? 
Explain  me  that,  or  do  one  of  two  things :  retire  into  private 
places  with  thy  foolish  cackle ;  or,  what  were  better,  give  it  up 
and  weep,  not  that  the  world  is  mean  and  disenchanted  and  pro¬ 
saic,  but  that  thou  art  vain  and  blind. 

Is  anything  more  wonderful  than  another,  if  you  consider  it 
maturely  ?  I  have  seen  no  men  rise  from  the  dead  ;  I  have  seen 
some  thousands  rise  from  nothing.  I  have  not  force  to  fly  into  the 
sun,  but  I  have  force  to  lift  my  hand,  which  is  equally  strange. 

Wonder  is  the  basis  of  worship ;  the  reign  wonder  is  peren- 


Extracts  from  Journal. 


60 


nial,  indestructible ;  only  at  certain  stages  (as  the  present)  it  is 
(for  some  short  season)  in  partibus  infidelium. 

August ,  1830. — What  is  a  man  if  you  look  at  him  with  the  mere 
logical  sense,  with  the  understanding?  A  pitiful  hungry  biped 
that  wears  breeches.  Often  when  I  read  of  pompous  ceremonials, 
drawing-room  levees,  and  coronations,  on  a  sudden  the  clothes  fly 
off  the  whole  party  in  my  fancy,  and  they  stand  there  straddling  in 
a  half  ludicrous,  half  horrid  condition  ! 

September  7. — Yesterday  I  received  tidings  that  my  project  of 
cutting  up  that  thrice  wretched  ‘  History  of  German  Literature  ’ 
into  review  articles,  and  so  realising  something  for  my  year’s  work, 
will  not  take  effect.  The  ‘  course  of  Providence  ’  (nay,  sometimes 
I  almost  feel  that  there  is  such  a  thing  even  for  me)  seems  guiding 
my  steps  into  new  regions  ;  the  question  is  coming  more  and  more 
towards  a  decision.  Canst  thou,  there  as  thou  art,  accomplish 
aught  good  and  true ;  or  art  thou  to  die  miserably  as  a  vain  pre¬ 
tender?  It  is  above  a  year  since  I  wrote  one  sentence  that  came 
from  the  right  place  ;  since  I  did  one  action  that  seemed  to  be 
really  worthy.  The  want  of  money  is  a  comparatively  insignificant 
affair ;  were  I  doing  well  otherwise,  I  could  most  readily  consent 
to  go  destitute  and  suffer  all  sorts  of  things.  On  the  whole  I  am 
a - .  But  tush  ! 

The  moral  nature  of  a  man  is  not  a  composite  factitious  con¬ 
cern,  but  lies  in  the  very  heart  of  his  being,  as  his  very  self  of 
selves.  The  first  alleviation  to  irremediable  pain  is  some  convic¬ 
tion  that  it  has  been  merited,  that  it  comers  from  the  All-just 
from  God. 

What  am  I  but  a  sort  of  ghost  ?  Men  rise  as  apparitions  from 
the  bosom  of  night,,  and  after  grinning,  squeaking,  gibbering  some 
space,  return  thither.  The  earth  they  stand  on  is  bottomless  ,  the 
vault  of  their  sky  is  infinitude  ;  the  \iiQ-time  is  encompassed  with 
eternity.  O  wonder  !  And  they  buy  cattle  or  seats  in  Parliament, 
and  drink  coarser  or  finer  fermented  liquors,  as  if  all  this  weie  a 
city  that  had  foundations. 

I  have  strange  glimpses  of  the  power  of  spiritual  union,  of  asso¬ 
ciation  among  men  of  like  object.  Therein  lies  the  true  element 
of  religion.  It  is  a  truly  supernatural  climate.  All  wondrous 
things,  from  a  Pennenden  Heath  or  Penny-a-week  Puigatoi\  bo- 


70 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

ciety,  to  the  foundation  of  a  Christianity,  or  the  (now  obsolete) 
exercise  of  magic,  take  their  rise  here.  Men  work  godlike  miracles 
thereby,  and  the  horridest  abominations.  Society  is  a  wonder  of 
wonders,  and  politics  (in  the  right  sense  far,  very  far,  from  the 
common  one)  is  the  noblest  science.  Cor  ne  edito !  Up  and  be 
doing !  Hast  thou  not  the  strangest,  grandest  of  all  talents 
committed  to  thee,  namely,  life  itself  ?  O  heaven  !  And  it  is 
momentarily  rusting  and  wasting,  if  thou  use  it  not.  Up  and  be 
doing  !  and  pray  (if  thou  but  can)  to  the  unseen  Author  of  all  thy 
strength  to  guide  thee  and  aid  thee  ;  to  give  thee,  if  not  victory 
and  possession,  unwearied  activity  and  Entsagen. 

Is  not  every  thought  properly  an  inspiration  ?  Or  how  is  one 
thing  more  inspired  than  another  ?  Much  in  this. 

Why  should  politeness  be  peculiar  to  the  rich  and  well  born? 
Is  not  every  man  alive ,  and  is  not  every  man  infinitely  venerable 
to  every  other  ?  ‘  There  is  but  one  temple  in  the  universe,’  says 

Novalis,  ‘and  that  is  the  body  of  man.’ 

Franz  von  Sickingen  was  one  of  the  noblest  men  of  the  Refor¬ 
mation  period.  He  defended  Ulrich  von  Hutten,  warred  against 
perfidious  Wiirtemberg,  was  the  terror  of  evildoers,  the  praise  of 
whoso  did  well.  Hutten  and  he  read  Luther  together :  light 
rising  in  darkness !  He  also  stood  by  Gotz  von  Berlichingen,  and 
now  walks  in  poetry.  But  why  I  mention  him  here  is  his  tran¬ 
scendent  good  breeding.  He  was  at  feud  with  his  superior  the 
Bishop  of  Triers,  and  besieged  by  him,  and  violently  defending 
himself  against  injustice  at  the  moment  when  he  received  his 
death  wound.  His  castle  was  surrendered ;  Triers  and  others 
approached  the  brave  man,  over  whose  countenance  the  last  pale¬ 
ness  was  already  spreading  :  he  took  off  his  cap  to  Triers,  there  as 
he  lay  in  that  stern  agony.  What  a  picture  ! 

Nulla  dies  sine  lined.  Eheu,  eheu !  Yesterday  accordingly  I 
wrote  a  thing  in  dactyls-,  entitled  the  ‘  Wandering  Spirits,’  which 
now  fills  and  then  filled  me  with  ‘  detestation  and  abhorrence.’ 
No  matter — to-day  I  must  do  the  like.  Nulla  dies  sine  lined.  To 
the  persevering,  they  say,  all  things  are  possible.  Possible  or 
impossible,  I  have  no  other  implement  for  trying. 

Last  night  I  sat  up  very  late  reading  Scott’s  ‘  History  of  Scot- 


Extracts  from  Journal.  71 

land.’  An  amusing  narrative,  clear,  precise,  and  I  suppose  accu¬ 
rate  :  but  no  more  a  history  of  Scotland  than  I  am  Pope  of  Rome. 
A  series  of  palace  intrigues  and  butcheries  and  battles,  little  more 
important  than  those  of  Donnybrook  Fair ;  all  the  while  that 
Scotland ,  quite  unnoticed,  is  holding  on  her  course  in  industry,  in 
arts,  in  culture,  as  if  ‘  Langside  ’  and  ‘  Clean-the-Causeway  ’  had 
remained  unfought.  Strange  that  a  man  should  think  that  he 
was  writing  the  history  of  a  nation  while  he  is  chronicling  the 
amours  of  a  wanton  young  woman  called  queen,  and  a  sulky  booby 
recommended  to  kingship  for  his  fine  limbs,  and  then  blown  up 
with  gunpowder  for  his  ill  behaviour !  Good  heaven !  let  them 
fondle  and  pout  and  bicker  ad  libitum :  what  has  God’s  fair  crea¬ 
tion  and  man’s  immortal  destiny  to  do  with  them  and  their  trade  ? 

One  inference  I  have  drawn  from  Scott :  that  the  people  in 
those  old  days  had  a  singular  talent  for  nicknames :  King  Toom- 
Tabard,  Bell-the-Cat  (less  meritorious),  the  Foul  Raid,  the  Round¬ 
about  Raid ,  Glean-tlie-Causeway,  the  Tulchan  Prelates,  &c.  &c. 
Apparently  there  was  more  humour  in  the  national  mind  than 
now. 

For  the  rest  the  ‘Scottish  History’  looks  like  that  of  a  gipsy 
encampment — industry  of  the  rudest,  largely  broken  by  sheer 
indolence  ;  smoke,  sluttishness,  hunger,  scab  and — blood.  Hap¬ 
pily,  as  hinted,  Scotland  herself  was  not  there. 

Lastly,  it  is  noteworthy  that  the  nobles  of  the  country  have 
maintained  a  quite  despicable  behaviour  from  the  times  of  Wal¬ 
lace  downwards.  A  selfish,  ferocious,  famishing,  unprincipled 
set  of  hyaenas,  from  whom  at  no  time  and  in  no  way  has  the  coun¬ 
try  derived  any  benefit.  The  day  is  coming  when  these  our  mod¬ 
ern  hyaenas  (though  toothless,  still  mischievous  and  greedy  beyond 
limit)  will  (quietly  I  hope)  be  paid  off:  Canaille  faineante,  que 
faites-vous  Id  ?  Down  with  your  double-barrels ;  take  spades,  if 
ye  can  do  no  better,  and  work  or  die. 

The  quantity  of  pain  thou  feelest  is  indicative  of  the  quantity 
of  life,  of  talent  thou  hast :  a  stone  feels  no  pain.  (Is  that  a  fact  ?) 

September  9. — Wrote  a  fractionlet  of  verse  entitled  ‘  The  Bee¬ 
tle’1  (a  real  incident  on  Glaisters  Moor),  which,  alas!  must  stand 
for  the  linea,  both  of  Tuesday  and  Wednesday.  To-day  I  am  to 
try  I  know  not  what.  Greater  clearness  will  arrive.  I  make  far 

1  Miscellanies ,  vol.  i.,  Appendix  II.,  No.  6. 


72  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

most  progress  when  I  walk,  on  solitary  roads — of  which  there  are 
enough  here. 

Last  night  came  a  whole  bundle  of  ‘  Fraser’s  Magazines,’  &c. : 
twTo  little  papers  by  my  brother  in  them,  some  fables  by  me  ;  and 
on  the  whole  such  a  hurly-burly  of  rhodomontade,  punch,  loyalty, 
and  Saturnalian  Toryism  as  eye  hath  not  seen.  This  out-Bfack- 
woods  Blackwood.  Nevertheless,  the  thing  has  its  meaning — a 
kind  of  wild  popular  lower  comedy,  of  which  John  Wilson  is  the 
inventor.  It  may  perhaps  (for  it  seems  well  adapted  to  the  age) 
carry  down  his  name  to  other  times,  as  his  most  remarkable 
achievement.  All  the  magazines  (except  the  ‘  New  Monthly  ’)  seem 
to  aim  at  it ;  a  certain  quickness,  fluency  of  banter,  not  excluding 
sharp  insight,  and  Merry  Andrew  drollery,  and  even  humour, 
are  available  here ;  however,  the  grand  requisite  seems  to  be  im¬ 
pudence,  and  a  fearless  committing  of  yourself  to  talk  in  your 
drink.  Literature  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  ;  but  printing  has ; 
and  printing  is  now  no  more  the  peculiar  symbol  and  livery  of  lit¬ 
erature  than  writing  wTas  in  Gutenberg’s  day. 

Great  actions  are  sometimes  historically  barren ;  smallest  ac¬ 
tions  have  taken  root  in  the  moral  soil  and  grown  like  banana  for¬ 
ests  to  cover  whole  quarters  of  the  world.  Aristotle’s  philoso¬ 
phy  and  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  (and  both  too  had  fair  trial), 
the  ‘  Mecanique  Celeste  ’  and  the  ‘-Sorrows  of  Werter,’  Alexander’s 
expedition,  and  that  of  Paul  the  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  !  Of 
these,  however,  Werter  is  half  a  gourd,  and  only  by  its  huge  de¬ 
cidua  (to  be  used  as  manure)  will  fertilise  the  future.  So,  too,  with 
the  rest ;  all  are  deciduous,  and  must  at  last  make  manure,  only  at 
longer  dates.  Yet  of  some  the  root  also  (?)  seems  to  be  undying. 

What  are  Schiller  and  Goethe  if  you  try  them  in  that  way  ?  As 
yet  it  is  too  soon  to  try  them.  No  true  effort  can  be  lost. 

One  thing  we  see  :  the  moral  nature  of  man  is  deeper  than  his 
intellectual ;  things  planted  down  into  the  former  may  grow  as  if 
for  ever ;  the  latter  as  a  kind  of  drift  mould  produces  only  an¬ 
nuals.  What  is  Jesus  Christ’s  significance?  Altogether  moral. 
What  is  Jeremy  Bentham’s  significance  ?  Altogether  intellectual, 
logical.  I  name  him  as  the  representative  of  a  class  important 
only  for  their  numbers,  intrinsically  wearisome,  almost  pitiable  and 
pitiful.  Logic  is  their  sole  foundation,  no  other  even  recognised 


'Extracts  from  Journal. 


73 


as  possible  ;  wherefore  their  system  is  a  machine  and  cannot  grow 
or  endure  ;  but  after  thrashing  for  a  little  (and  doing  good  service 
that  way)  must  thrash  itself  to  pieces  and  be  made  fuel.  Alas, 
poor  England !  stupid,  purblind,  pudding-eating  England !  Ben- 
tham  with  his  Mills  grinding  thee  out  morality  ;  and  some  Macau¬ 
lay,  also  be-aproned  and  a  grinder,  testing  it,  and  decrying  it,1  be¬ 
cause — it  is  not  his  own  Whig  established  Quern-morality — I  mean 
that  the  Utilitarians  have  logical  machinery,  and  do  grind  fiercely 
and  potently,  on  their  own  foundation;  whereas  the  Whigs  have 
no  foundation,  but  must  stick  up  their  handmills,  or  even  pep¬ 
per  mills,  on  what  fixture  they  can  come  at,  and  then  grind  as  it 
pleases  Heaven.  The  Whigs  are  amateurs,  the  Radicals  are  guild- 
brethren. 

The  sin  of  this  age  is  dilettantism ;  the  Whigs  and  all  ‘  moderate 
Tories  ’  are  the  grand  dilettanti.  I  begin  to  feel  less  and  less  pa¬ 
tience  for  them.  This  is  no  world  where  a  man  should  stand  trim¬ 
ming  his  whiskers,  looking  on  at  work  or  touching  it  with  the 
point  of  a  gloved  finger.  Man  sollte  greifen  zu  !  There  is  more 
hope  of  an  atheist  utilitarian,  of  a  superstitious  ultra  (Tory),  than 
of  such  a  lukewarm  withered  mongrel.  He  would  not  believe 
though  one  rose  from  the  dead.  He  is  wedded  to  idols — let  him 
alone. 

September,  about  the  28/A2 — Rain!  rain!  rain!  The  crops  all 
lying,  tattered,  scattered,  and  unripe  ;  the  winter’s  bread  still  under 
the  soaking  clouds  !  God  pity  the  poor  ! 

It  was  a  wise  regulation  which  ordained  that  certain  days  and 
times  should  be  set  apart  for  seclusion  and  meditation — whether 
as  fasts  or  not  may  reasonably  admit  of  doubt ;  the  business  being 
to  get  out  of  the  body  to  philosophise.  But  on  the  whole  there  is 
a  deep  significance  in  Silence.  Were  a  man  forced  for  a  length  of 
time  but  to  hold  his  peace,  it  were  in  most  cases  an  incalculable 
benefit  to  his  insight.  Thought  works  in  silence,  so  does  virtue. 
One  might  erect  statues  to  Silence.  I  sometimes  think  it  were 
good  for  me,  who  after  all  cannot  err  much  in  loquacity  here,  did 
I  impose  on  myself  at  set  times  the  duty  of  not  speaking  for  a  day. 
What  folly  would  one  avoid  did  the  tongue  lie  quiet  till  the  mind 
had  finished  and  was  calling  for  utterance.  Not  only  our  good 

1  Macaulay’s  Essay  on  James  Mill. 

2  Even  a  regular  count  of  days  was  lost  at  Craigenputtock. 


74 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

thoughts,  but  our  good  purposes  also,  are  frittered  asunder,  and 
dissipated  by  unseasonable  speaking  of  them.  Words,  the  stran¬ 
gest  product  of  our  nature,  are  also  the  most  potent.  Beware  of 
speaking.  Speech  is  human,  silence  is  divine,  yet  also  brutish  and 
dead  :  therefore  we  must  learn  both  arts ;  they  are  both  difficult. 
Blower  roots  hidden  under  soil.  Bees  working  in  darkness,  &c. 
The  soul,  too,  in  silence.  Let  not  thy  left  hand  know  what  thy 
right  hand  doeth.  Indeed,  secresv  is  the  element  of  all  good¬ 
ness  ;  every  virtue,  every  beauty  is  mysterious.  I  hardly  under¬ 
stand  even  the  surface  of  this.  .  .  . 

October  28.— Written  a  strange  piece  ‘  On  Clothes.’ 1  Know  not 
what  will  come  of  it. 

Gutes  Pfercl 

Ist’s  Hafer’s  werth  (myself?  November  24). 

Keceived  the  ‘  ornamented  Schiller  ’  from  Goethe,  and  wondered 
not  a  little  to  see  poor  old  Craigenputtock  engraved  at  Frankfort- 
on-the-Main.  If  I  become  anything,  it  will  look  well ;  if  I  become 
nothing,  a  piece  of  kind  dotage  (on  his  part).  Sent  away  the 
‘  Clothes,’  of  which  I  could  make  a  kind  of  book,  but  cannot  afford 
it.  Have  still  the  book  in  petto  (?),  but  in  the  most  chaotic  shape. 

The  Whigs  in  office,  and  Baron  Brougham  Lord  Chancellor ! 
Haystacks  and  cornstacks  burning  over  all  the  south  and  middle  of 
England!  Where  will  it  end?  Revolution  on  the  back  of  revo¬ 
lution  for  a  century  yet  ?  Religion,  the  cement  of  society ,  is  not 
here  :  we  can  have  no  permanent  beneficent  arrangement  of  affairs. 

Not  that  wTe  want  no  aristocracy,  but  that  we  want  a  true  one. 
While  the  many  work  with  their  hands,  let  -the  few  work  with 
their  heads  and  hearts,  honestly,  and  not  with  a  shameless  villany 
pretend  to  work,  or  even  openly  steal.  Were  the  landlords  all 
hanged  and  their  estates  given  to  the  poor,  we  should  be  (econom¬ 
ically)  much  happier  perhaps  for  the  space  of  thirty  years.  But 
the  population  would  be  doubled  then ;  and  again  the  hunger  of 
the  unthrifty  wrould  burn  the  granary  of  the  industrious.  Alas ! 
that  there  is  no  Church,  and  as  yet  no  apparent  possibility  of  one. 

The  divine  right  of  squires  is  equal  to  the  divine  right  of  kings, 
1  First  sketch  of  Sartor  Mesartics ,  intended  for  a  review  article. 


Extracts  from  Journal .  75 

and  not  superior  ?  A  word  has  made  them,  and  a  word  can  un¬ 
make  them. 

I  have  no  property  in  anything  whatsoever ;  except,  perhaps  (if 
I  am  a  virtuous  man)  in  my  own  free  will.  Of  my  body  I  have 
only  a  life  rent ;  of  all  that  is  without  my  skin  only  an  accidental 
possession,  so  long  as  I  can  keep  it.  Vain  man!  Are  the  stars 
thine  because  thou  lookest  on  them  ?  Is  that  piece  of  earth  thine 
because  thou  hast  eaten  of  its  fruits  ?  Thy  proudest  palace  what 
is  it  but  a  tent :  pitched  not  indeed  for  days  but  for  years?  The 
earth  is  the  Loi'd’s.  Remember  this,  and  seek  other  duties  than 
game  preserving,  wouldst  thou  not  be  an  interloper,  sturdy  beggar, 
and  even  thief. 

Faules  Pferd 
Keines  Hafers  wertli. 

The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,  and  the  idler  of  his  also, 
namely,  of  starvation. 

Byron  we  call  ‘  a  dandy  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief.’ 
That  is  a  brief  definition  of  him. 

What  is  art  and  poetry  ?  Is  the  beautiful  really  higher  than 
the  good?  A  higher  form  thereof?  Thus  were  a  poet  not  only 
a  priest,  but  a  high  priest. 

When  Goethe  and  Schiller  say  or  insinuate  that  art  is  higher 
than  religion,  do  they  mean  perhaps  this?  That  whereas  religion 
represents  (what  is  the  essence  of  truth  for  man)  the  good  as  in¬ 
finitely  (the  word  is  emphatic)  different  from  the  evil,  but  sets 
them  in  a  state  of  hostility  (as  in  heaven  and  hell),  art  likewise 
admits  and  inculcates  this  quite  infinite  difference,  but  without 
hostility,  with  peacefulness,  like  the  difference  of  two  poles  which 
cannot  coalesce  yet  do  not  quarrel — nay,  should  not  quarrel,  for 
both  are  essential  to  the  whole.  In  this  way  is  Goethe’s  morality 
to  be  considered  as  a  higher  (apart  from  its  comprehensiveness, 
nay,  universality)  than  has  hitherto  been  promulgated  ?  Sehr 
emseitig  !  Yet  perhaps  there  is  a  glimpse  of  the  truth  here. 

Examine  by  logic  the  import  of  thy  life  and  of  all  lives.  W  hat 
is  it  ?  A  making  of  meal  into  manure,  and  of  manure  into  meal. 
To  the  cui  bono  there  is  no  answer  from  logic. 

December  29,  1830. — The  old  year  just  expiring ;  one  of  the  most 


76  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

worthless  years  I  have  spent  for  a  long  time.  Durch  eigne  und 
cinder er  Schuld  !  But  words  are  worse  than  nothing.  To  thy  re¬ 
view  (Taylor’s  ‘Hist.  Survey’).  Is  it  the  most  despicable  of  work? 
Yet  is  it  not  too  good  for  thee?  Oh,  I  care  not  for  poverty,  little 
even  for  disgrace,  nothing  at  all  for  want  of  renown.  But  the  hor¬ 
rible  feeling  is  when  I  cease  my  own  struggle,  lose  the  conscious¬ 
ness  of  my  own  strength,  and  become  positively  quite  worldly  and 
wicked. 

In  the  paths  of  fortune  (fortune !)  I  have  made  no  advancement 
since  last  year  ;  but,  on  the  contrary  (owing  chiefly  to  that  Ger¬ 
man  Literary  History  one  way  and  another),  considerably  retro¬ 
graded.  No  matter  :  had  I  but  progressed  in  the  other  better 
path  !  But  alas,  alas  !  howsoever,  pocas  palabras  !  I  am  still  here. 

Bist  Du  glucklicli,  Du  Gute,  dass  Du  unter  der  Erde  bist?  Wo 
stehst  Du  ?  Liebst  Du  mich  nocli  ?  God  is  the  God  of  the  dead 
as  well  as  of  the  living.  The  dead  as  the  living  are — where  He 
wills. 

This  Taylor  is  a  wretched  atheist  and  Philistine.  It  is  my  duty 
(perhaps)  to  put  the  flock  whom  he  professes  to  lead  on  their 
guard.  Let  me  do  it  well! 

February  7,  1831. — Finished  the  review  of  Taylor  some  three 
weeks  ago,  and  sent  it  off.  It  is  worth  little,  and  only  partially  in 
a  right  spirit. 

Sent  to  Jack  to  liberate  my  ‘Teufelsdrockh’  from  editorial  du¬ 
rance  m  London,  and  am  seriously  thinking  to  make  a  book  of 
it.  The  thing  is  not  right — not  art ;  yet  perhaps  a  nearer  ap¬ 
proach  to  art  than  I  have  yet  made.  We  ought  to  try.  I  want  to 
get  it  done,  and  then  translate  ‘  Faust,’  as  I  have  partially  prom¬ 
ised  to  Goethe.  Through  ‘  Teufelsdrockh  ’  I  am  yet  far  from  see¬ 
ing  my  way  ;  nevertheless  materials  are  partly  forthcoming. 

No- sense  from  the  ‘Foreign  Quarterly  Review;’  have  nearly 
determined  on  opening  a  correspondence  on  the  matter  of  that 
everlasting  MS.1  with  Bowring  of  the  ‘Westminster.’  Could 
write  also  a  paper  on  the  Saint  Simonians.  One  too  on  Dr.  John¬ 
son,  for  Napier.  Such  are  the  financial  aspects.  N.B.  I  have  some 
five  pounds  to  front  the  world  with— and  expect  no  more  for  months. 
Jack,  too,  is  in  the  neap  tide.  Hand  to  the  oar. 


1  German  Literature. 


Extracts  from  Journal.  77 

All  Europe  is  in  a  state  of  disturbance,  of  revolution.  About 
this  very  time  they  may  be  debating  the  question  of  British  ‘  Re¬ 
form’  in  London.  The  Parliament  opened  last  week.  Our  news 
of  it  expected  on  Wednesday.  The  times  are  big  with  change. 
Will  one  century  of  constant  fluctuation  serve  us,  or  shall  we  need 
two  ?  Their  Parliamentary  reforms  and  all  that  are  of  small  mo¬ 
ment;  a  beginning  (of  good  and  evil),  nothing  more.  The  whole 
frame  of  society  is  rotten,  and  must  go  for  fuel  wood — and  where 
is  the  new  frame  to  come  from  ?  I  know  not,  and  no  man  knows. 

The  only  sovereigns  of  the  world  in  these  days  are  the  literary 
men  (were  there  any  such  in  Britain) — the  prophets.  It  is 
always  a  theocracy :  the  king  has  to  be  anointed  by  the  priest ; 
and  now  the  priest,  the  Goethe  for  example,  will  not,  cannot  con¬ 
secrate  the  existing  king  who  therefore  is  a  usurper,  and  reigns 
only  by  sufferance.  What  were  the  bet  that  King  William  were 
the  last  of  that  profession  in  Britain,  and  Queen  Victoria  never 
troubled  with  the  sceptre  at  all  ?  Mighty  odds  :  yet  nevertheless 
not  infinite  ;  for  what  thing  is  certain  now  ?  No  mortal  cares  two¬ 
pence  for  any  king,  or  obeys  any  king  except  through  compulsion  ; 
and  society  is  not  a  ship  of  war.  Its  government  cannot  always 
be  a  press-gang. 

What  are  the  episcopal  dignitaries  saying  to  it  ?  Who  knows 
but  Edward  Irving  may  not  yet  be  a  bishop  !  They  will  clutch 
round  them  for  help,  and  unmuzzle  all  manner  of  bull-dogs  when 
the  thief  is  at  the  gate.  Bull-dogs  with  teeth.  The  generality 
have  no  teeth  in  that  kennel. 

Kings  clo  reign  by  divine  right,  or  not  at  all.  The  king  that 
were  God-appointed  would  be  an  emblem  o£  God  and  could  de¬ 
mand  all  obedience  from  us.  But  where  is  that  king  ?  The  best 
man ,  could  we  find  him,  were  he.  Tell  us,  tell  us,  O  ye  codifiers 
and  statists  and  economists,  how  we  shall  find  him  and  raise  him 
to  the  throne  :  or  else  admit  that  the  science  of  polity  is  worse 
than  unknown  to  you. 

Earl  (Jarl — Yarl),  count,  duke,  knight,  &c.,  are  all  titles  de¬ 
rived  from  fighting.  Jllie  honour-titles  in  a  future  time  will  derive 
themselves  from  knowing  and  well-doing.  They  will  also  be  con¬ 
ferred  with  more  deliberation  and  by  better  judges.  This  is  & 
prophecy  of  mine. 


78 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


God  is  above  us,  else  the  future  of  the  world  were  well-nigh 
desperate.  Go  where  we  may,  the  deep  heaven  will  be  round  us. 

Jeffrey  is  Lord-Advocate  and  M.P.  Sobbed  and  shrieked  at 
taking  office,  iike  a  bride  going  to  be  married.  I  wish  him  alto¬ 
gether  well,  but  reckon  he  is  on  the  wrong  course  ;  Whiggism,  I 
believe,  is  all  but  for  ever  done.  Away  with  Dilettantism  and 
Machiavellism,  though  we  should  get  atheism  and  Sansculottism 
in  their  room  !  The  latter  are  at  least  substantial  things,  and  do 
not  build  on  a  continued  wilful  falsehood.  But  oh !  but  oh  ! 

where  is  Teufelsdrockli  all  this  while  ?  The  south-west  is  busv 

«/ 

thawing  off  that  horrible  snowstorm.  Time  rests  not — thou  only 
art  idle.  To  pen !  to  pen  ! 

‘  Benvenuto  Cellini  ’  a  very  worthy  book ;  gives  more  insight 
into  Italy  than  fifty  Leo  Tenths  would  do.  A  remarkable  man 
Benvenuto,  and  in  a  remarkable  scene.  Religion  and  art  with 
ferocity  and  sensuality ;  polished  respect  with  stormful  indepen¬ 
dence  ;  faithfully  obedient  subjects  to  popes  who  are  not  hier¬ 
archs  but  plain  scoundrels  !  Life  was  far  sunnier  and  richer  then  ; 
but  a  time  of  change,  loudly  called  for,  was  advancing,  and  but 
lately  has  reached  its  crisis.  Goethe’s  essay  on  Benvenuto  quite 
excellent. 

Pope’s  ‘  Homer’s  Odyssey,’  surely  a  very  false,  and  though  in¬ 
genious  and  talented,  yet  bad  translation.  The  old  epics  are  great 
because  they  (musically)  show  us  the  whole  world  of  those  old  days. 
A  modern  epic  that  did  the  like  would  be  equally  admired,  and 
for  us  far  more  admirable.  But  where  is  the  genius  that  can 
write  it  ?  Patience !  patience  !  he  will  be  here  one  of  these  cen¬ 
turies. 

Is  Homer  or  Shakespeare  the  greater  genius  ?  It  were  hard  to 
say.  Shakespeare’s  world  is  the  more  complex,  the  more  spirit¬ 
ual,  and  perhaps  his  mastery  over  it  wTas  equally  complete.  ‘  We 
are  such  stuff* as  dreams  are  made  of.’  There  is  the  basis  of  a 
whole  poetic  universe.  To  that  mind  all  forms  and  figures  of  men 
and  things  would  become  ideal. 

•What  is  a  whole?  or  how  specially  does  a  poem  differ  from 
prose?  Ask  not  a  definition  of  it  in  words,  jvhich  can  hardly  ex¬ 
press  common  logic  correctly.  Study  to  create  in  thyself  a  feeling 
of  it ;  like  so  much  else  it  cannot  be  made  clear,  hardly  even  to 
thy  thought  (?). 


From  Wote  Book. 


79 


I  see  some  vague  outline  of  wliat  a  whole  is :  also  liow  an  indi¬ 
vidual  delineation  may  be  ‘  informed  with  the  Infinite  ;  ’  may  ap¬ 
pear  hanging  in  the  universe  of  time  and  space  (partly)  :  in  which 
case  is  it  a  poem  and  a  whole?  Therefore  are  the  true  heroic 
poems  of  these  times  to  be  written  with  the  ink  of  science?  Were 
a  correct  philosophic  biography  of  a  man  (meaning  by  philo¬ 
sophic  all  that  the  name  can  include)  the  only  method  of  cele¬ 
brating  him  ?  The  true  history  (had  we  any  such,  or  even  gen¬ 
erally  any  dream  of  such)  the  true  epic  poem  ?  I  partly  begin  to 
surmise  so.  What  after  all  is  the  true  proportion  of  St.  Matthew 
to  Homer — of  the  Crucifixion  to  the  fall  of  Troy? 

On  the  whole  I  wish  I  could  define  to  myself  the  true  relation 
of  moral  genius  to  poetic  genius  ;  of  religion  to  poetry.  Are  they 
one  and  the  same — different  forms  of  the  same  ;  and  if  so,  which 
is  to  stand  higher,  the  Beautiful  or  the  Good  ?  Schiller  and 
Goethe  seem  to  say  the  former,  as  if  it  included  the  latter,  and 
might  supersede  it :  how  truly  I  can  never  well  see.  Meanwhile 
that  the  faculties  always  go  together  seems  clear.  It  is  a  gross 
calumny  on  human  nature  to  say  that  there  ever  was  a  mind  of 
surpassing  talent  that  did  not  also  surpass  in  capability  of  virtue  ; 
and  vice  versa.  Nevertheless,  in  both  cases  there  are  female  ge¬ 
niuses  too,  minds  that  admire  and  receive,  but  can  hardly  create.  I 
have  observed  that  in  these  also  the  taste  for  religion  and  for  23oetry 
go  together.  The  most  wonderful  words  I  ever  heard  of  being 
uttered  by  man  are  those  in  the  four  Evangelists  by  Jesus  of  Naz¬ 
areth.  Their  intellectual  talent  is  hardly  inferior  to  their  moral. 
On  this  subject,  if  I  live,  I  hope  to  have  much  to  say. 

And  so  ends  my  first  note-book  after  nigh  eight  years,  here  at 
Craigenputtock,  at  my  own  hearth,  and  though  amid  trouble  and 
dispiritment  enough,  yet  with  better  outlooks  than  I  had  then. 
My  outward  world  is  not  much  better  (yes  it  is,  though  I  have  far 
less  money),  but  my  inward  is,  and  I  can  promise  myself  never  to 
be  so  miserable  again.  Farewell,  ye  that  have  fallen  asleep  since 
then;  farewell,  though  distant,  perhaps  near  me!  Welcome  the 
good  and  evil  that  is  to  come,  through  which  God  assist  me  to 
struggle  wisely.  What  have  I  to  look  back  on  ?  Little  or 
nothing.  What  forward  to  ?  My  own  small  sickly  force  amid 
wild  enough  whirlpools  !  The  more  diligently  apply  it  then. 

Nu£  e/jyerai. 


CHAPTER  Y. 


A.  D.  1830.  MT.  35. 

It  appears  from  the  journal  that  early  in  1830  Carlyle 
had  advanced  so  far  with  his  History  of  German  Litera¬ 
ture  that  he  was  hoping  soon  to  see  it  published  and  off 
his  hands.  A  first  sketch  of  6  Teufelsdrockh  ’ — the  egg  out 
of  which  £  Sartor  Resartus ?  was  to  grow — had  been  offered 
without  result  to  London  magazine  editors.  Proposals 
were  made  to  him  for  a  Life  of  Goethe.  But  on  Goethe 
he  had  said  all  that  for  the  present  he  wished  to  say. 
Luther  was  hanging  before  him  as  the  subject  which  he 
wanted  next  to  grapple,  could  he  hut  find  the  means  of 
doing  it.  But  the  preliminary  reading  necessary  for  such 
a  work  was  wide  and  varied.  The  books  required  were 
not  to  he  had  at  Craigenputtock ;  and  if  the  literary  his¬ 
tory  could  once  be  finished,  and  any  moderate  sum  of 
money  realised  upon  it,  he  meditated  spending  six  months 
in  Germany,  taking  Mrs.  Carlyle  with  him,  to -collect  ma¬ 
terials.  He  had  great  hopes  of  what  he  could  do  with 
Luther.  An  editor  had  offered  to  bring  it  out  in  parts  in 
a  magazine,  but  Carlyle  would  not  hear  of  this. 

I  rather  believe  (lie  said)  that  when  I  write  that  book  of  the  * 
great  German  lion,  it  shall  be  the  best  book  I  have  ever  written, 
and  go  forth,  I  think,  on  its  own  legs.  Do  you  know  we  are  ac¬ 
tually  talking  of  spending  the  next  winter  in  Weimar,  and  prepar¬ 
ing  all  the  raw  material  of  a  right  Luther  there  at  the  fountain¬ 
head — that  is,  of  course,  if  I  can  get  the  history  done  and  have 
the  cash. 

Jeffrey  started  at  the  idea  of  the  winter  at  Weimar — at 


Intended  Visit  to  Germany . 


81 


least  for  Mrs.  Carlyle — and  suggested  that  if  it  was  car¬ 
ried  out  slie  should  he  left  in  his  charge  at  Edinburgh. 
He  was  inclined,  he  said,  to  be  jealous  of  the  possible  in¬ 
fluence  of  Goethe,  who  had  half  bewitched  her  at  a  dis¬ 
tance — unless  indeed  the  spell  was  broken  by  the  personal 
presence  of  him.  But  Jeffrey’s  fears  were  unnecessary. 
There  was  no  W eimar  possible  for  Carlyle,  and  no  Life  of 
Luther.  The  unfortunate  ‘  German  Literature  ’  could  not 
find  a  publisher  who  would  so  much  as  look  at  it.  Boyd, 
who  had  brought  out  the  volumes  of  c  German  Bomance,’ 
wrote  that  he  would  be  proud  to  publish  for  Carlyle  upon 
almost  any  other  subject  except  German  Literature.  lie 
knew  that  in  this  department  Carlyle  was  superior  to  any 
other  author  of  the  day,  but  the  work  proposed  was  not 
calculated  to  interest  the  British  public.  Everyone  of  the 
books  about  German  literature  had  been  failures,  most  of 
them  ruinous  failures.  The  feeling  in  the  public  mind 
was  that  everything  German  was  especially  to  be  avoided, 
and  with  the  highest  esteem  for  Carlyle’s  talent  he  dared 
not  make  him  an  offer.  Even  cut  up  into  articles  he  still 
found  no  one  anxious  to  take  it.  There  was  still  another 
hope.  Carlyle’s  various  essays  had  been  greatly  noticed 
and  admired.  An  adventurous  bookseller  might  perhaps 
be  found  who  would  bid  for  a  collected  edition  of  them. 
The  suggestion  took  no  effect  however.  The  £  Teufels- 
drockh’  had  to  be  sent  back  from  London,  having  created, 
nothing  but  astonished  dislike.  Aothing  was  to  be  done 
therefore  but  to  remain  at  Craigenputtock  and  work  on, 
honing  for  better  times.  Fresh  articles  were  written,  a 
second  on  Jean  Paul,  a  slight  one  on  Madame  de  Stael, 
with  the  first  of  the  two  essays  on  history  which  are  pub* 
lished  in  the  1  Miscellanies.’  He  was  thus  able  to  live,  but 
not  so  far  as  money  was  concerned  to  overtake  the  time 
which  he  had  spent  over  his  unsaleable  book ;  his  finances 
remained  sadly  straitened,  and  he  needed  all  his  energy  to 
Vol.  II.— 6 


S3  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

fight  on  against  discouragement.  One  bright  gleam  of 
comfort  came  to  him  from  Weimar  in  the  summer  of  this 
year.  Communication  had  been  kept  up  constantly  with 
Goethe  since  the  Comely  Bank  time.  In  the  winter 
1829-30,  Mrs.  Carlyle,  writing  to  her  mother-in-law  at 
Scotsbrig,  says : 

Carlyle  is  over  head  and  ears  in  business  to-niglit  writing  letters 
to  all  the  four  winds.  There  is  a  box  to  be  despatched  for  Goethe 
containing  all  manner  of  curiosities,  the  most  precious  of  which 
is  a  lock  of  my  hair.  There  is  also  a  smart  Highland  bonnet  for 
his  daughter-in-law,  accompanied  by  a  nice  little  piece  of  poetry, 
professing  to  be  written  by  me,  but  in  truth  I  did  not  write  a 
word  of  it. 

Scotland  prides  her  in  the  bonnet  blue 
That  brooks  no  stain  in  love  or  war ; 

Be  it  on  Ottilie’s  head  a  token  true 
Of  Scottish  love  to  kind  Weimar. 

Goethe’s  answer  reached  Craigenputtock  about  June.1 

1  Das  werthe  Schatzkastlein,  nachdem  es  durch  den  strengsten  Winter  vom 
Continent  lange  abgehalten  worden,  ist  endlich  urn  die  Hiilfte  Marz  gliicklich 
angelangt. 

Um  von  seinem  Gehalt  zu  sprechen,  erwahne  zuerst  die  unschatzbare  Locke, 
die  man  wohl  mit  dem  theuren  Haupte  verbunden  mochte  geselien  liaben,  die 
aber  hier  einzeln  erblickt  mich  fast  erschreckt  hatte.  Der  Gegensatz  war  zu 
auffallend  ;  denn  ich  brauchte  meinen  Schadel  nicht  zu  beruhren  um  zu  wisseu 
dass  daselbst  nur  Stoppeln  sich  hervorthun ;  es  war  mir  nicht  noting  vor  dem 
Spiegel  zu  treten,  um  zu  erfahren  dass  eine  lange  Zeitreise  ilinen  ein  missfar- 
biges  Ansehen  gegeben.  Die  Unmbgligkelt  der  verlangten  Erwiederung  fiel 
mir  aufs  Herz,  und  nothigte  mich  zu  Gedanken  deren  man  sich  zu  entsclila,- 
gen  pflegt.  Am  Ende  aber  blieb  mir  doch  nichts  iibrig  als  mich  an  der  Vor- 
stellung  zu  begniigen :  eine  solche  Gabe  sey  dankbarlichst  ohne  Hoffnung 
irgend  einer  geniigenden  Gegengabe  anzunehmen.  Sie  soil  auch  heilig  in  der 
ihrer  wiir digen  Brieftasche  aufbewahrt  bleiben,  und  nur  das  Liebenswurdigste 
ihr  zugcsellt  werden. 

Der  schottische  elegante  Turban  hat,  wie  ich  versichern  darf,  zu  manchem 
\  ergnuglichen  Gelegenheit  gegeben.  Seit  vielen  Jahren  werden  wir  von  den 
Einwohnern  der  drey  Konigreiche  besucht,  welche  gern  eine  Zeit  lang  bey  uns 
verweilen  und  gute  Gesellschaft  geniessen  mogen.  Hierunter  befinden  sich 
zwar  weniger  Schotten,  doch  kann  es  nicht  felilen  dass  nicht  noch  das  Anden- 
ken  an  einen  solchen  Landsmann  sich  in  einem  schonen  Herzen  so  lebendig 
Unde,  um  die  National-Prachtmutze,  die  Distel  mit  eingeschlossen,  als  einen 
wiinschensv/erthesten  Schmuck  anzusehen ;  und  die  gutige  Senderinn  hatte 


83 


Letter  f  rom  Goethe. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle. 

The  precious  casket,  after  having  been  long  detained  from  the 
Continent  through  the  most  severe  winter,  has  at  last  safely  ar¬ 
rived  towards  the  middle  of  March.  With  regard  to  its  contents, 
I  mention  first  the  inestimable  lock  of  hair,  which  one  would  have 
wished  to  have  seen  together  with  the  dear  head,  but  which  as  here 
seen  by  itself  had  almost  frightened  me.  The  contrast  was  too 

sich  gewiss  gefreut  das  lieblichsto  Gesicht  von  der  Welt  darunter  hervorgucken 
zu  sehen.  Ottilie  aber  dankt  zum  allerverbindlichsten,  und  wild,  sobald 
unsere  Trane rt age  voruber  sind,  damit  glorreich  aufzutreten  nicht  ermangeln. 

Lassen  Sie  mich  nun  eine  niichste  Gegensendung  ankundigen,  welche  zum 
Juni  als  der  giinstigsten  Jahreszeit  sich  wohl  wird  zusammengef unden  haben. 
Sie  erhalten : — 

1.  Das  Exemplar  Ihres  ubersetzten  Schiller,  geschmiickt  mit  den  Bildern 
Ihrer  landlichen  Wohnung  (by  day  and  night !),  begleitet  von  einigen  Bogen 
in  meiner  Art,  wodurch  ich  zugleich  dem  Biichlein  offnen  Eingang  zu  ver- 
schaffen,  besonders  aber  die  Communication  beyder  Lander  und  Literaturen 
lebhafter  zu  erregen  trachte.  Ich  wunsche  dass  diese  nach  Kcnntniss  des 
Publicums  angewandten  Mittel  Ihnen  nicht  mistaken,  auch  derGebrauch,  den 
ich  von  Stellen  unserer  Correspondenz  gemacht,  nicht  als  Indiscretion  moge 
gedeutet  werden.  Wenn  icli  mich  in  jiingeren  Jahren  von  dergleichen  Mitt- 
heilungen  durchaus  gehiitet,  so  ziemt  es  dem  hohern  Alter  auch  solche  Wege 
nicht  zu  verschmahen.  Die  giinstige  Aufnahme  des  Schillerischen  Brief- 
wechsels  gab  mir  eigentlich  liiezu  Anlass  und  Muth. 

Ferner  finden  Sie  beygelegt : — 

2.  Die  vier  nocli  fehlende  Biinde  gedacliter  Briefe.  Mogen  Sie  Ihnen  als 
Zaubervvagen  zu  Dienste  stehen,  um  sich  in  der  damaligen  Zeit  in  unsere  Mitte 
zu  versetzen,  wo  es  eine  unbedingte  Strebsamkeit  gait,  wo  niemand  zu  fordern 
dachte  und  nur  zu  verdienen  bemiiht  war.  Ich  babe  mir  die  vielen  Jahre  her 
den  Sinn,  das  Gefiihl  jener  Tage  zu  erhalten  gesucht  und  hoffe  es  soil  mir  fer- 
nerhin  gelingen. 

3.  Eine  fiinfte  Sendung  meiner  Werke  liegt  sodann  bey,  worin  sich  wohl 
manches  unterhaltende,  unterrichtende,  belehrende,  brauchbar  anzuwendende 
finden  wird.  Man  gestehe  zu  dass  es  auch  Ideal-Utilitarier  gebe,  und  es  sollte 
mir  sehr  zur  Freude  gereichen,  wenn  ich  mich  darunter  zahlen  di'irfte.  Noch 
eine  Lieferung,  dann  ist  vorerst  das  beabsichtigte  Ganze  vollbracht,  dessen 
Abschluss  zu  erleben  ich  mir  kaum  zu  hoffen  erlaubte.  Nachtrage  giebt  es 
noch  hinreichend.  Meine  Papiere  sind  in  guter  Ordnung. 

4.  Ein  Exemplar  meiner  Farbenlehre  und  der  dazu  gehdrigen  Tafeln  soli 
auch  beygfiigt  werden  ;  ich  wunsche,  dass  Sie  den  zweyten,  als  den  histori- 
schen  Theil,  zuerst  lesen.  Sie  sehen  da  die  Sache  herankommen,  stocken,  sich 
aufklaren  und  wieder  verdustern,  Sodann  aber  ein  Bestreben  nach  neuem 
Lichte  ohne  allgemeinen  Erfolg.  Alsdann  wiirde  die  erste  Hiilfte  des  ersten 
Theils,  als  die  didactische  Abtheilung,  eine  allgemeine  Yorstellung  geben  wie 
ich  die  Sache  angegrifFen  wunsche.  Freylich  ist  ohne  Anschauung  der  Ex- 
perimente  hier  nicht  durchzukommen ;  wie  Sie  es  mit  der  polemiachen  Ab- 


84 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


striking,  for  there  was  no  need  for  my  touching  my  skull  in  order 
to  know  that  stubbles  only  would  show  themselves  there.  It  was 
not  necessary  for  me  to  stand  before  the  looking-glass  in  order  to 
know  that  the  long  passage  of  time  had  imparted  to  my  hair  a 
discoloured  appearance.  The  impossibility  of  the  asked-for  re¬ 
turn  troubled  my  heart,  and  drove  me  to  thoughts  which  one  is 
wont  to  put  aside.  In  the  end,  however,  nothing  remained  to  me 
but  to  be  satisfied  with  the  thought"  that  such  a  gift  must  be 
gratefully  accepted,  without  the  hope  of  any  sufficient  return.  It 
shall  remain  sacredly  kept,  in  a  pocket-book  worthy  of  it,  and 
only  the  most  loved  shall  ever  bear  it  company. 

The  elegant  Scotch  turban  has,  as  I  may  assure  you,  been  the 
occasion  of  much  enjoyment.  For  many  years  we  have  had  visits 
from  the  inhabitants  of  the  three  kingdoms,  who  like  to  stay  with 
us  for  a  time  and  enjoy  good  society.  Though  there  are  fewer 
Scots  among  them,  it  cannot  be  but  that  the  memory  of  one  such 
countryman  should  be  so  vivid  in  some  one  beautiful  heart  here  as 
to  make  it  look  on  that  splendid  national  head-dress,  including 
the  thistle,  as  a  most  desirable  ornament.  The  kind  sender 
would,  no  doubt,  have  been  delighted  to  see  the  most  charming 
face  in  the  world  looking  out  from  under  it.  Ottilie  sends  her 
most  grateful  thanks,  and  will  not  fail,  as  soon  as  our  mourning  is 
over,  to  make  a  glorious  appearance  in  it. 

Let  me  now  in  return  announce  to  you  an  approaching  despatch, 
which  I  hope  to  have  put  together  by  June,  as  the  most  favourable 
time  of  the  year.  You  receive  : — 

1st.  The  copy  of  your  translated  Schiller,  adorned  with  the 

theilung  halten  wollen  und  konnen,  wird  sicli  alsdann  ergeben.  1st  es  mir 
moglich,  so  lege  besonders  fur  Sie  ein  einleitendes  Wort  bey. 

5.  Sagen  Sie  mir  etwas  zuniichst  wie  Sie  die  Deutsche  Literatur  bey  den 
Xhrigen  einleiten  wollen ;  ich  eroftne  Ihnen  gern  meine  Gedanken  uber  die 
Folge  der  Epochen.  Man  braucht  nicht  iiberall  ausf  uhrlich  zu  seyn  :  gut  aber 
ist’s  auf  manches  voriibergehende  Interessante  wenigstens  liinzudeuten,  urn  zu 
zeigen  dass  man  es  kennt. 

Dr.  Eckermann  macht  mit  meinen  Sokn  eine  Reisegegen  Siiden  und  bedau- 
ert,  nicht  wie  er  gewiinscht  hatte.  diesmal  beyhiilflieh  syn  zu  konnen.  Ich 
werde  gern,  wie  obgesagt,  seine  Stelle  vertreten.  Diesen  Sommer  bleib  ich  zu 
Hause  und  sebe  bis  Michael  Geschiifte  genug  vor  mir. 

Gedenken  Sie  mit  Ihrer  lieben  Gattinn  unserer  zum  besten  und  empfangen 
wiederholten  herzlichen  Dank  fur  die  schbne  Sendung. 

Treu  angehorig, 

J.  W.  Goethe. 


Weimar,  den  13.  April,  1830. 


Letter  from  Goethe. 


85 


pretures  of  your  country  liomo  (by  day  and  night),  accompanied 
by  some  sheets  in  my  own  style,  whereby  I  try  to  gain  a  ready 
entrance  for  the  little  book,  and  more  especially  to  infuse  greater 
life  into  the  intercourse  of  the  two  countries  and  literatures.  I 
hope  that  the  means  which  I  have  employed  according  to  my 
knowledge  of  the  public  may  not  displease  you,  and  that  the  use 
which  I  have  made  of  some  passages  of  our  correspondence  may 
not  be  taken  as  an  indiscretion.  Though  in  my  earlier  years  I 
have  carefully  abstained  from  such  communications,  it  behoves  a 
more  advanced  age  not  to  despise  even  such  ways.  It  was  really* 
the  favourable  reception  of  my  correspondence  with  Schiller 
which  gave  me  the  impulse  and  courage  for  it.  Further,  you  will 
find  added — • 

2nd.  The  four  volumes,  still  wanting,  of  those  letters.  May 
they  serve  as  a  magic  chariot  to  transport  you  into  our  midst  at 
that  period,  when  we  thought  of  nothing  but  striving,  where  no 
one  thought  of  asking  for  rewards,  but  was  only  anxious  to  de¬ 
serve  them.  I  have  tried  for  these  many  years  to  keep  alive  the 
sense  and  the  feeling  of  those  days.  I  hope  I  shall  succeed  in 
this  for  the  future  also. 

3rd.  A  fifth  copy  of  nly  works  is  also  there,  in  which  I  hope  may 
be  found  many  things  amusing,  instructive,  improving,  and  fit  for 
use.  Let  it  be  admitted  that  there  exist  ideal  utilitarians  also, 
and  it  would  give  me  much  pleasure  if  I  might  count  myself 
among  them.  Still  one  number,  and  I  shall  have  finished  the 
whole  of  what  I  intended  for  the  present,  and  the  completion  of 
which  I  hardly  allowed  myself  to  hope  I  should  see.  Supple¬ 
ments  there  are  plenty,  and  my  papers  are  in  good  order. 

4th.  A  copy  of  my  ‘  Treatise  on  Colour,’  with  the  tables  belong¬ 
ing  to  it,  shall  also  be  added ;  and  I  wish  you  to  read  the  second, 
as  the  historical  part,  first.  You  see  how  the  subject  arose,  how  it 
came  to  a  standstill,  how  it  grew  clear,  and  how  it  became  dark 
again ;  then  a  striving  after  new  light,  without  a  general  success. 
Afterwards,  the  first  half  of  the  first  part,  being  the  didactic  sec¬ 
tion,  would  give  a  general  idea  how  I  wish  to  see  the  subject 
taken  up.  Only  without  seeing  the  experiments,  it  is  impossible 
to  get  on  here.  You  will  then  see  what  you  wish  and  are  able  to 
do  with  the  polemical  portion.  If  it  is  possible  I  shall  add  an  in¬ 
troductory  word  especially  for  you. 

5th.  Please  to  tell  me  first  how  you  wish  to  introduce  German 
literature  among  your  people.  I  shall  then  open  my  thoughts  to 


80 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


you  on  the  succession  of  the  epochs.  It  is  not  necessary  to  be 
very  exhaustive  everywhere,  but  it  is  well  to  point  at  least  to  many 
things  which  had  a  passing  interest,  in  order  to  show  that  one 
knows  them.  Dr.  Eckermann  is  making  a  journey  with  my  son, 
southwards,  and  regrets  that  this  time  he  is  not  able  to  be  useful 
as  he  had  wished.  I  should  gladly,  as  I  said  just  now,  take  his 
place.  I  shall  stay  at  home  this  summer,  and  until  Michaelmas 
have  plenty  of  work  before  me. 

May  you  and  your  dear  wife  keep  us  in  best  remembrance,  and 
receive  once  more  my  hearty  thanks  for  the  beautiful  presents. 
f  Sincerely  yours, 

J.  W.  Goethe. 

Weimar  :  April  13,  1830. 

Attached  to  the  letter  to  Carlyle  were  a  few  additional 
lines  on  the  request  of  Mrs.  Carlyle  for  a  lock  of  his  hair, 
to  which  he  had  been  unable  to  accede.  The  original  re¬ 
mains  preserved  among  her  treasures,  the  only  autograph 
of  Goethe  which  I  have  succeeded  in  finding.1 

An  incomparable  black  ringlet  demands  a  few  more  words  from 
me.  I  have  to  say  with  real  regret  that  the  desired  exchange  is, 
alas !  impossible.  Short  and  miscoloured,  and  robbed  of  all  its 
grace,  old  age  must  be  content  if  the  inner  man  can  still  throw 
out  a  flower  or  two  when  the  outward  bloom  has  departed.  I 
would  gladly  find  a  substitute,  but  as  yet  I  have  not  succeeded. 
My  fairest  greetings  to  the  admirable  wife.  I  trust  the  box  lias 
arrived  safe.  G. 

Goethe  had  already  spoken  of  his  inability  to  comply  in 
his  first  letter.  This  little  note  was  perhaps  intended  for 
the  surrogat  which  he  had  been  vainly  looking  for  ;  as  an 
autograph  which  Mrs.  Carlyle  might  keep  for  herself. 

1  Eine  unvergleichliche  schwarze  Haarlocke  veranlasst  mich  noch  ein  Blat- 
tchen  beyzulegen,  und  mit  wahrhaftem  Bedauern  zu  bemerken  dass  die  ver- 
langte  Erwiederungleider  unmoglich  ist.  Kurz  und  missfarbig,  alles  Schmuclces 
entbehrend,  muss  das  Alter  sich  begniigen  wenn  sich  dem  Innern  noch  irgend 
eine  Bliithe  aufthut,  indem  die  Aeussere  verschwunden  ist.  Ich  sinne  schon 
auf  irgend  ein  Surrogat ;  ein  solches  zu  finden  hat  mir  aber  noch  nicht  glucken 
wollen.  Meine  schonsten  Griisse  der  wurdigen  Gattinn. 

Moge  das  Kastchen  gliicklich  angekommen  seyn. 


G. 


87 


* 

Death  of  Margaret  Carlyle . 

If  the  box  came  at  the  time  which  he  intended,  the 
pleasure  which  it  must  have  given  was  soon  clouded.  The 
journal  alludes  to  the  death  of  the  most  dearly  loved  of  all 
Carlyle’s  sisters.  The  Carlyles  as  a  family  were  passion¬ 
ately  attached  to  each  other.  Margaret  Carlyle’s  apparent 
recovery  was  as  delusive  as  her  sister-in-law  had  feared.  In 
the  winter  she  fell  ill  again  ;  in  the  spring  she  was  carried 
to  Dumfries  in  the  desperate  hope  that  medical  care  might 
save  her.  Carlyle  has  written  nothing  more  affecting  than 
the  account  of  her  end  in  the  4  Reminiscences  of  Irving.’ 

<D 

A  letter  written  at  the  time  to  his  brother,  if  wanting  the 
mellow  beauty  which  the  scene  had  assumed  in  his  mem¬ 
ory,  is  even  more  impressive  from  the  greater  fulness  of 
detail. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock  :  J  une  29,  1830. 

It  was  on  Monday  night  when  Alick  took  leave  of  our  sister. 
On  Tuesday,  if  I  remember  rightly,  she  felt  ‘  better,’  but  was  evi¬ 
dently  fast  growing  weaker.  In  the  afternoon  it  was  pretty  evident 
to  everyone  that  she  was  far  gone.  The  doctor,  who  was  unwearied 
in  his  assiduities,  formed  a  worse  opinion  at  every  new  examina¬ 
tion.  All  hope  of  a  complete  cure  had  vanished  some  days  before. 
Our  mother  asked  her  in  the  afternoon  if  she  thought  herself  dy¬ 
ing.  She  answered,  ‘  I  dinna  ken,  mother,  but  I  never  was  so 
sick  in  my  life.’  To  a  subsequent  question  about  her  hopes  of  a 
future  world,  she  replied  briefly,  but  in  terms  that  were  comforta¬ 
ble  to  her  parents.  It  was  about  eight  at  night  when  John  Currie 
was  despatched  to  go  and  seek  a  horse  and  proceed  hither ;  where, 
as  you  already  know,  he  arrived  about  midnight.  By  this  time 
the  sick-room  was  filled  with  sympathising  relatives.  The  minis¬ 
ter,  Mr.  Clyde,  also  came  and  feelingly  addressed  her.  She  recog¬ 
nised  everyone,  was  calm,  clear  as  she  had  ever  been ;  sometimes 
spoke  in  whispers,  directing  little  services  to  be  done  to  her  ; 
once  asked  where  Mary  was,  who  had  gone  out  for  a  moment. 
Twice  she  asked  for  the  £  drops,’  I  believe  that  ‘  mixture  I  spoke 
of.  The  first  time,  our  mother,  who  now  cared  chiefly  for  her 
soul’s  weal,  and  that  sense  and  recollection  might  be  given  her  in 
that  stern  hour,  answered  dissuasively,  but  said  if  she  asked  for 


88 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

tliem  a  second  time  they  should  be  given  her.  Some  hours  before, 
our  mother  had  begged  her  forgiveness  if  she  had  ever  done  her 
anything  wrong ;  to  which  the  dying  one  answered,  ‘  Oh  no,  no, 
mother,  never,  never/  earnestly,  yet  quietly,  and  without  tears. 
About  a  quarter-past  ten  she  asked  again  for  the  drink  (or  drops, 
which  were  taken  in  water),  and  took  the  glass  which  Mary  also 
held  in  her  own  hand.  She  whispered  to  Mary,  ‘  Pour  up/ 
swallowed  about  half  the  liquid,  threw  her  head  on  the  pillow, 
looking  out  with  her  usual  look  ;  but  her  eyes  quickly  grew  bright 
and  intense,  the  breath  broke  into  long  sighs,  and  in  about  two 
minutes  a  slight  quiver  in  the  under  lip  gave  token  that  the  fight 
was  fought  and  the  wearied  spirit  at  its  goal.  I  saw  her  in  the  wind¬ 
ing-sheet  about  six  o’clock,  beautiful  in  death,  and  kissed  her  pale 
brow,  not  without  warm  tears  which  I  could  not  check.  About 
mid-day,  when  she  was  laid  in  the  coffin,  I  saw  her  face  once  more 
for  the  last  time. 

Our  mother  behaved  in  what  I  must  call  an  heroic  manner. 
Seeing  that  the  hour  was  now  come,  she  cast  herself  and  her  child 
on  God’s  hand,  and  endeavoured  heartily  to  say,  ‘  His  will  bo 
done.’  Since  then  she  has  been  calmer  than  any  of  us  could  have 
hoped — almost  the  calmest  of  us.  No  doubt  the  arrow  still  sticks 
in  her  heart,  and  natural  sorrow  must  have  its  course  ;  but  I  trust 
she  seeks  and  finds  the  only  true  balm,  howsoever  named,  by 
which  man’s  woe  can  be  healed  and  made  blessed  to  him. 

Thus,  dear  brother,  has  our  eldest  and  best  sister  been  taken 
from  us,  mercifully,  as  you  said,  though  sorrowfully,  having  been 
spared  much  suffering,  and  carried  in  clear  possession  of  her 
sense  and  steadfastness  through  that  last  solemn  trial.  We  all 
wept  sore  for  her  as  you  have  done  and  now  do,  but  will  endeavour 
to  weep  no  more.  I  have  often  thought  she  had  attained  all  in 
life  that  life  could  give  her — a  just,  true,  meekly  invincible  com¬ 
pleted  character,  which  I  and  so  many  others,  by  far  more  ambi¬ 
tious  paths,  seek  for  in  vain.  She  was  in  some  points,  I  may  say 
deliberately,  superior  to  any  woman  I  have  ever  seen.  Her  simple 
clearness  of  head  and  heart,  her  perfect  fairness,  and  quiet,  unpre¬ 
tending,  brief  decisiveness  in  thought,  word,  and  act  (for  in  all 
these  she  was  remarkable)  made  up  so  true  and  brave  a  spirit  as, 
in  that  unaffected  guise,  we  shall  hardly  look  upon  again.  She 
might  have  been  wife  to  a  Scottish  martyr,  and  spoken  stern  truths 
to  the  ear  of  tyrants,  had  she  been  called  to  that  work.  As  it  is, 
she  sleeps  in  a  pure  grave,  and  our  peasant  maiden  to  us  who 


8.9 


Death  of  Margaret  Carlyle. 

knew  her  is  more  than  a  king’s  daughter.  Let  us  for  ever  remem¬ 
ber  her  and  love  her,  but  cease  from  henceforth  to  mourn  for  her. 
She  was  mercifully  dealt  with— called  away  when  her  heart  if  not 
unwounded  was  yet  unseared  and  fresh,  amidst  pain  and  heavi¬ 
ness  it  is  true,  but  not  in  any  agony  or  without  some  peaceful 
train  of  hope  enlightening  her  to  the  end.  The  little  current  of 
her  existence  flowed  onward  like  a  Scottish  brook  through  green 
simple  fields.  Neither  was  it  caught  into  the  great  ocean  over 
chasms  and  grim  cataracts,  but  gently  and  as  among  thick  clouds 
wdiereon  hovered  a  rainbow. 

I  might  tell  you  something  of  the  funeral  arrangements,  and 
how  the  loss  has  left  the  rest  of  us.  Early  on  Tuesday  our  mother 
and  Mary  set  off  for  Scotsbrig  in  one  of  Alick's  carts  which  hap¬ 
pened  to  be  there.  A  coffin  was  speedily  got  ready,  with  burial  lit¬ 
ter,  &c.;  and  it  was  agreed  that  Alick  and  I  should  attend  the  body 
down  to  Scotsbrig  next  day,  where  it  was  to  lie  till  Saturday,  the 
day  of  the  funeral.  All  Wednesday  these  things  kept  him  and  me 
incessantly  busy ;  the  poor  Alick  was  sick  to  the  heart,  and  cried 
more  that  day  than  I  had  ever  seen  him  do  in  his  life.  At  night 
I  had  to  return  hither  and  seek  Jenny.  I  was  the  messenger  of 
heavy  and  unexpected  tidings.  Jane  too  insisted  on  going  with 
us ;  so  next  morning  (Thursday)  we  set  out  hence,  Jenny  and  I  in 
a  gig,  Jane  riding  behind  us.  At  Dumfries,  where  Alick  had  re¬ 
mained  to  watch  all  night,  we  found  Jacob  with  a  hearse.  About 
two  o’clock  we  moved  off,  the  gig  close  following  the  hearse,  Jane 
and  Alick  riding  behind  us.  We  reached  Scotsbrig  about  six. 
Poor  Robert  Crow  was  dreadfully  affected.  He  waked  every  night, 
spoke  earnestly  and  largely  on  the  subject  of  the  deceased,  and  by 
his  honesty  and  sensibility  and  pure  sincere  religious  bearing  en¬ 
deared  himself  to  everyone.  On  Saturday  about  half-past  one  the 
jvrocession  moved  away.  Our  mother  stood  like  a  priestess  in  the 
door,  tearless  when  all  were  weeping.  Our  father  and  Alick  went 
in  the  gig.  The  former,  ill  in  health,  looked  resolute,  austere,  and 
to  trivial  condolers  and  advisers  almost  indignant.  The  coffin  was 
lowered  into  a  very  deep  grave  on  the  east  side  of  our  headstone 
in  the  Ecclefeclian  churchyard,  and  the  mourners,  a  numerous 
company,  separated ;  W.  Graham  and  a  few  others  accompanying 
us  home  to  that  stupid  horrid  ceremony,  a  funeral  tea,  which  in 
our  case  was  speedily  transacted. 

Yesterday  morning  we  set  out  on  our  return.  It  had  been  set¬ 
tled  that  Mary  was  to  stay  yonder  for  a  fortnight  or  ten  days,  our 


00 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


mother  and  Jenny  to  come  hither.  I  drove  the  former  in  the  gig ; 
Jenny  came  in  a  cart  with  Bretton.  We  settled  various  accounts, 
<fcc.,  at  Dumfries,  and  arrived  here  about  eleven,  all  well.  Mother 
had  a  good  sleep,  and  is  pretty  well  in  health.  She  talked  of  re¬ 
turning  to  the  Sacrament.  Our  father  was  complaining  much,  and 
evidently  suffering  somewhat  severely.  His  appetite  is  bad.  He 
has  a  cold,  coughs  a  little,  and  is  in  bad  spirits  when  left  to  him¬ 
self.  I  bought  him  some  paregoric,  but  he  was  breathless,  dispir¬ 
ited,  and  could  not  eat.  We  hope  the  good  weather  would  mend 
him  would  it  come.  The  rest  of  us  are  well.  God  bless  you,  dear 
brother.  T.  Oaulyle. 

We  are  all  sad  and  dull  (lie  wrote  a  fortnight  later)  about  her 
that  is  laid  in  the  earth.  I  dream  of  her  almost  nightly,  and  feel 
not  indeed  sorrow,  for  what  is  life  but  a  continual  dying?  Yet  a 
strange  obstruction  and  haunting  remembrance.  Let  us  banish  all 
this,  for  it  is  profitless  and  foolish. 

.  Tliy  qnict  goodness,  spirit  pure  and  brave, 

What  boots  it  now  with  tears  to  tell  ; 

The  path  to  rest  lies  through  the  grave  : 

Loved  sister,  take  our  long  farewell. 

We  shall  meet  again,  too,  if  God  will.  If  He  will  not,  then  better 
we  should  not  meet. 

From  the  ‘  Journal 5  I  add  a  few  more  words. 

On  the  22nd  of  June  my  sister  Margaret  died  at  Dumfries, 
whither  she  had  been  removed  exactly  a  week  before  for  medical 
help.  It  was  a  Thursday  night,  about  ten  minutes  past  ten.  Alick 
and  I  were  roused  by  express  about  midnight,  and  we  arrived  there 
about  four.  That  solstice  night,  with  its  singing  birds  and  sad 
thoughts,  I  shall  never  forget.  She  was  interred  next  Saturday 
at  Ecclefeclian.  I  reckoned  her  the  best  of  all  my  sisters — in 
some  respects  the  best  woman  I  had  ever  seen. 

Whom  bring  ye  to  the  still  dwelling  ? 

’Tis  a  tired  playmate  whom  we  bring  you  ; 

Let  her  rest  in  your  still  dwelling 

Till  the  songs  of  her  heavenly  sisters  awaken  her. 

And  so  let  me  betake  myself  again  with  what  energy  I  can  to  the 
commencement  of  my  task.  Work  is  for  the  living,  rest  is  for  the 
dead. 


91 


Death  of  Margaret  Carlyle . 

Margaret  Carlyle  sleeps  in  Ecclefechan  churchyard. 
Her  father  followed  soon,  and  was  laid  beside  her.  Then 
after  him,  but  not  for  many  years,  the  pious,  tender,  origi¬ 
nal,  beautiful-minded  mother.  John  Carlyle  was  the  next 
of  their  children  who  rejoined  them,  and  next  he  of  whom 
I  am  now  writing.  The  world  and  the  world’s  business 
scatter  families  to  the  four  winds,  but  they  collect  again 
in  death.  Alick  lies  far  off  in  a  Canadian  resting-place ; 
but  in  his  last  illness,  when  the  memory  wanders,  he  too 
had  travelled  in  spirit  back  to  Annandale  and  the  old  days 
when  his  brother  was  at  college,  and  with  the  films  of  the 
last  struggle  closing  over  his  eyes  he  asked  anxiously  if 
‘Tom  was  come  back  from  Edinburgh.5 

The  loss  of  this  sister  weighed  heavily  on  Carlyle’s 
spirits,  and  the  disappointment  about  his  book  fretted  him 
on  the  side  to  which  he  might  naturally  have  turned  to 
seek  relief  in  work.  Goethe’s  steady  encouragement  was 
of  course  inspiriting,  but  it  brought  no  grist  to  the  mill, 
and  the  problem  of  how  he  was  to  live  was  becoming  ex¬ 
tremely  serious.  Conscious  though  he  was  of  exceptional 
powers,  which  the  most  grudging  of  his  critics  could  not 
refuse  to  acknowledge,  he  was  discovering  to  his  cost  that 
they  were  not  marketable.  lie  could  not  throw  his 
thoughts  into  a  shape  for  which  the  Sosii  of  the  day 
would  give  him  money.  lie  had  tried  poetry,  but  his 
verse  was  cramped  and  unmelodious.  He  had  tried  to 
write  stories,  but  his  convictions  were  too  intense  for  fic¬ 
tion.  The  £  dreadful  earnestness  ’  of  which  Jeffrey  com¬ 
plained  was  again  in  his  way,  and  he  could  have  as  little 
written  an  entertaining  novel  as  St.  Paul  or  St.  John. 
His  entire  faculty — intellect  and  imagination  alike — was 
directed  upon  the  sternest  problems  of  human  life.  It 
was  not  possible  for  him,  like  his  friend  at  Craigcrook,  to 
take  up  with  the  first  creed  that  came  to  hand  and  make 
the  best  of  it.  He  required  something  which  he  could 


92 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


really  believe.  Tims  liis  thoughts  refused  to  move  in  any 
common  groove.  He  had  himself  to  form  the  taste  by 
which  he  could  be  appreciated,  and  when  he  spoke  his 
words  provoked  the  same  antagonism  which  every  original 
thinker  is  inevitably  condemned  to  encounter — antagonism 
first  in  the  form  of  wonder,  and  when  the  wonder  ceased 
of  irritation  and  angry  enmity.  lie  taught  like  one  that 
had  authority — a  tone  which  men  naturally  resent,  and 
must  resent,  till  the  teacher  has  made  his  pretensions 
good.  Every  element  was  absent  from  his  writing  which 
would  command  popularity,  the  quality  to  which  book¬ 
sellers  and  review  editors  are  obliged  to  look  if  they  would 
live  themselves.  Carlyle’s  articles  were  magnetic  enough, 
but  with  the  magnetism  which  repelled,  not  which  at¬ 
tracted.  Ilis  faith  in  himself  and  in  his  own  purposes 
never  wavered;  but  it  was  becoming  a  subject  of  serious 
doubt  to  him  whether  he  could  make  a  living,  even  the 
humblest,  by  literature.  The  fair  promises  bf  the  last 
year  at  Comely  Bank  had  clouded  over ;  iniread  of  invita¬ 
tions  to  write,  he  was  receiving  cold  angers  to  his  own 
proposals.  Editors,  who  had  perhaps  resented  his  haughty 
style,  were  making  him  Heel  the  diffevence,’  neglecting  to 
pay  him  even  for  the  articles  which'  had  been  accepted 
and  put  in  type.  Ilis  brother  John,  finding  also  patients 
who  would  pay  slow  in  sending  for  him,  and  not  willing 
to  give  his  services  gratuitously,  was  thinking  that  he  too 
would  become  a  man  of  letters,  and  earn  his  bread  by 
writing  for  magazines.  Carlyle  warned  him  off  so  dan¬ 
gerous  an  enterprise  with  the  most  impressive  earnestness. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock  :  August  6,  1830. 

I  sympathise  in  your  reluctance  to  enter  on  the  practice  of 
medicinej  or  indeed  of  any  professional  duty;  well  understanding 
the  difficulties  that  lie  at  the  porch  of  all  and  threaten  the  solitary 


Economics . 


93 


adventurer.  Neither  can  I  be  surprised  at  your  hankering  after  a 
literary  life,  so  congenial  as  I  have  often  heard  you  hint  it  would 
be  to  your  tastes.  Nevertheless  it  would  greatly  astonish  me  if 
beyond  mere  preliminary  reveries  these  feelings  produced  any  in¬ 
fluence  on  your  conduct.  The  voice  of  all  experience  seems  to  be 
in  favour  of  a  profession.  You  sail  there  as  under  convoy  in  the 
middle  of  a  fleet,  and  have  a  thousandfold  chance  of  reaching  port. 
Neither  is  it  Happy  Islands  and  halcyon  seas  alone  that  you  miss, 
for  literature  is  thickly  strewed  with  cold  Russian  Nova  Zembias, 
where  you  shiver  and  despair  in  loneliness ;  nay  often,  as  in  the 
case  of  this  1  Literary  History  of  Germany,’  you  anchor  on  some 
slumbering  whale  and  it  ducks  under  and  leaves  you  spinning  in 
the  eddies.  To  my  mind  nothing  justifies  me  for  having  adopted 
the  trade  of  literature,  except  the  remembrance  that  I  had  no 
other  but  these  two— that  of  a  schoolmaster  or  that  of  a  priest : 
in  the  one  case  with  the  fair  prospect  of  speedy  maceration  and 
starvation  ;  in  the  other  of  perjury,  which  is  infinitely  worse.  As  it 
is,  I  look  confidently  forward  to  a  life  of  poverty,  toil,  and  dispirit- 
ment,  so  long  as  I  remain  on  this  earth,  and  hope  only  that  God 
will  grant  me  patience  and  strength  to  struggle  onwards  through 
the  midst  of  it,  working  out  his  will  as  I  best  can  in  this  lonely 
clay-pit  where  I  am  set  to  dig.  The  pitifullest  of  all  resources  is 
complaining,  which  accordingly  I  strive  not  to  practice  :  only  let 
these  things  be  known  for  my  brother’s  warning,  that  he  may  order 
his  life  better  than  I  could  do  mine. 

For  the  rest  I  pretend  not  to  thwart  your  own  judgment,  which 
ought  to  be  mature  enough  for  much  deeper  considerations ; 
neither  would  I  check  these  overflowings  of  discouragement, 
poured  as  they  naturally  should  be  into  a  brother’s  ear ;  but  after 
all  that  is  come  and  gone  I  expect  to  learn  that  your  medical 
talent,  sought  over  all  Europe,  and  indisputably  the  most  honour¬ 
able  a  man  can  have,  is  no  longer  to  be  hidden  in  a  napkin,  still 
less  to  be  thrown  away  into  the  lumber-room ;  but  to  come  forth 
into  the  light  of  day  for  your  own  profit  and  that  of  your  fellow 
men. 

Tell  me,  therefore,  dear.  Jack,  that  you  are  in  your  own  lodging 
resolute,  compacted,  girt  for  the  fight,  at  least  endeavouring  to  do 
your  true  duty.  Now,  as  ever  I  have  predicted  that  success  was 
certain  for  you,  my  sole  fear  is  that  such  wavering  and  waiting  at 
the  pool  may  in  the  end  settle  into  a  habit  of  fluctuation  and 
irresolution  far  enough  from  your  natural  character  ;  a  fear  which 


94  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

of  course  every  new  week  spent  in  drifting  to  and  fro  tends  to 
strengthen. 

Fear  nothing,  Jack.  Men  are  but  poor  spindle-shanked  whiffling 
wonners ,  when  you  clutch  them  through  the  mass  of  drapery  they 
wear.  To  throw  plenty  of  them  over  the  liouse-ridge  were  no  such 
feat  for  a  right  fellow.  Neither  is  their  favour,  their  envy,  their 
admiration,  or  anything  else  the  poor  devils  can  give  or  withhold, 
our  life  or  our  death.  Nay,  the  worst  we  and  they  fear  is  but  a 
bugbear,  a  hollow  shadow,  which  if  you  grasp  it  and  smite  it  dis¬ 
solves  into  air.  March  boldly  up  to  it  and  to  them ;  strong  and 
still  like  the  stars,  ‘  Olme  Hast  docli  olmc  East.’ 1  There  is  a  soul 
in  some  men  yet,  even  yet,  and  God’s  sky  is  above  us,  and  God’s 
commandment  is  in  us — 

Und  wenn  die  Welt  voll  Teufel  war’, 

Und  wollt’  uns  gar  verschlingen, 

So  furchten  wir  uns  nicht  so  selir  : 

Es  muss  uns  .dock  gelingen.2 

Up  and  be  doing.  Be  my  brother  and  life  companion,  not  in  word 
and  feeling  only,  but  in  deepest  deed  ! 

With  regard  to  that  manuscript  of  the  Literary  History  of  Ger¬ 
many,  get  it  out  of - ’s  claws  if  you  have  not  as  I  trust  already 

done  so.  To  which  now  add  an  article  on  Schiller  that  Fraser 
has,  that  he  talked  of  giving  to  some  magazine  or  other,  but  that 
I  desire  to  have  the  privilege  of  giving  or  retaining  myself,  being 
minded,  as  I  said  already,  to  have  no  more  business  transactions 
with  that  gentleman.  Get  the  two  MSS.  therefore,  dear  Jack,  and 
wrap  them  up  tightly  till  I  send  for  them.  The  Schiller  by- 
and-by  I  intend  for  the  ‘Foreign  Quarterly  Beview.’ 3  About  the 
history  I  wrote  to  Gleig,4  Colburn’s  editor  of  some  ‘  Library  of 
General  Knowledge,’  three  weeks  ago,  and  again  to-day,  having  re¬ 
ceived  no  answer.  Fraser  offered  to  negotiate  for  me  there  in  a 
letter  he  sent  me  last  week,  but  he  need  not  mingle  further  in  the 
matter,  I  think.  If  I  do  not  hear  in  a  week  I  shall  decide  for  my¬ 
self,  and  cut  Gleig  as  I  have  done  other  editors,  and  try  some  dif¬ 
ferent  method  of  realising  a  pound  or  two.  Get  you  the  MSS.  in 
the  first  place.  Tait,  to  whom  I  wrote,  declines.  I  am  now  got 

1  Without  haste,  yet  without  rest. 

2  From  Luther’s  Hymn. 

8  It  was,  however,  published  after  all  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  and  stands  now 
in  the  third  volume  of  the  Miscellanies. 

4  Afterwards  the  well-known  Chaplain-General. 


Advice  to  his  Brother. 


05 


as  far  as  Luther,  and  if  I  can  get  no  bookseller  I  will  stop  short 
there,  and  for  the  present  slit  it  up  into  review  articles,  and  pub¬ 
lish  it  that  way.1  Magazine  Fraser  has  never  offered  me  a  doit  for 
Richter’s  critique,  and  not  even  printed  it  at  all.  If  you  can  get 
any  cash  from  the  fellow  it  will  come  in  fine  stead  just  now,  when 
I  have  above  200/.  worth  of  writing  returned  on  my  hands,  and  no 
Fortunatus’  hat  close  by.  Adieu,  Jack.  We  are  poor  men,  but 
nothing  worse. 

Your  brother, 

T.  Carlyle. 

To  a  proud  gifted  man  it  was  no  pleasant  thing  to  chaf¬ 
fer  with  publishers  and  dun  for  payments,  which  were 
withheld  perhaps  to  bend  the  spirit  of  their  too  indepen¬ 
dent  contributor.  Carlyle  bore  his  humiliation  better  than 
might  have  been  expected.  Indeed,  as  a  rule,  all  serious 
trials  he  endured  as  nobly  as  man  could  do.  When  his 
temper  failed  it  was  when  some  metaphorical  gnat  was 
buzzing  in  his  ear.  John  Carlyle  succeeded  in  extorting 
the  few  pounds  that  were  owing  from  Fraser. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock  :  August  21,  1830. 

In  returning  from  Scotsbrig  this  day  week,  whither  I  had  gone 
on  the  Thursday  before,  I  found  your  letter  lying  safe  for  me  at 
Dumfries,  and  in  spite  of  its  valuable  enclosure  only  bearing  sin¬ 
gle  postage.  That  last  circumstance  was  an  error  on  the  part  of 
his  Majesty  which  it  did  not  strike  me  in  the  least  to  rectify.  We 
hear  that  Providence  is  a  rich  provider,  and  truly  in  my  case  I 
may  thankfully  say  so.  Many  are  the  times  when  some  seasonable 
supply  in  time  of  need  has  arrived  when  it  was  not  in  ihe  least 
looked  for.  I  was  not  bv  anv  means  quite  out  of  monev  when  your 
bank  paper  came  to  hand ;  but  I  saw  clearly  the  likelihood,  or 
rather  the  necessity,  of  such  an  event,  which  now  by  this  ‘  sea- 

1  Partially  accomplished  in  the  following  years,  after  many  difficulties.  The 
Nibelungen  Lied  appeared  in  the  Westminster  Review ,  and  Early  German  Lit¬ 
erature  in  the  Foreign  Quarterly.  These  essays,  which  are  still  the  best  upon 
their  special  subjects  which  exist  in  the  English  language,  are  specimens  of 
the  book  which  could  find  no  publisher.  They  too  are  in  the  third  volume  of 
the  Miscellanies. 


96 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

sonable  interposition  ’  is  put  off  to  a  safer  distance.  Pity  that 
poor  fellows  should  liang  so  much  on  cash  !  But  it  is  the  general 
lot,  and  whether  it  be  ten  pounds  or  ten  thousand  that  would  re¬ 
lieve  us,  the  case  is  all  the  same,  and  the  tie  that  binds  us  equally 
mean.  If  I  had  money  to  carry  me  up  and  down  the  world  in 
search  of  good  men  and  fellow-labourers  with  whom  to  hold  com¬ 
munion,  and  heat  myself  into  clearer  activity,  I  should  think  my¬ 
self  happier ;  but  in  the  mean  time  I  have  myself  here  for  better 
or  worse ;  and  who  knows  but  my  imprisonment  in  these  moors, 
sulkily  as  I  may  sometimes  take  it,  is  really  for  my  good  ?  If  I 
have  any  right  strength  it  will.  If  not,  then  what  is  the  matter 
whether  I  sink  or  swim  ?  Oh  that  I  had  but  a  little  real  wisdom  ; 
then  would  all  things  work  beautifully  together  for  the  best  ends. 
Meanwhile  the  Dunscore  Patmos  is  simply  the  place  where  of  all 
others  in  the  known  world  I  can  live  cheapest,  which  in  the  case  of 
a  man  living  by  literature,  with  little  saleable  talent,  and  who 
would  very  fain  not  prove  a  liar  and  a  scoundrel,  this  is  a  moment¬ 
ous  point.  So  let  us  abide  here  and  work,  or  at  least  rest  and  be 
thankful. 

I  am  happy  to  tell  you  that  if  this  Literary  History  is  not  fin¬ 
ished,  it  is  now  at  least  concluded.  On  Tuesday  last  I  had  a  very 

short  note  from  Captain,  or  rather  Curate - ,  which  had  been 

twice  requested  from  him,  stating  that  he  found  ‘  the  publishers 
averse,’  chiefly  on  the  score  of  terms  (which  terms  I  had  never 
hinted  at),  and  indicating  that  he  himself  was  averse  chiefly  on 
the  score  of  size,  as  one  volume  would  have  suited  the  Library  bet¬ 
ter.  Further,  it  appeared  from  this  note  that  the  Reverend  Editor 
was  in  all  human  probability  a  cold-hearted,  shabbyish,  dandy  par¬ 
son  and  lieutenant,  who,  being  disappointed  that  I  would  not  work 
for  him  at  low  wages,  and  any  kind  of  work,  wished  to  have  noth¬ 
ing  more  to  do  with  me,  in  which  implied  wish  I  could  not  but 
heartily,  though  sorrowfully,  coincide,  so  that  nothing  remains  for 
you  but  to  send  me  back  that  ill-starred  MS.  as  soon  as  you  can, 
that  I  may  consign  it  to  its  ultimate  distinction. 

Assure  Fraser  that  I  feel  no  shadow  of  spleen  against  him,  but 
a  true  sentiment  of  friendship  and  regret  at  all  the  trouble  he  has 
had.  For  your  satisfaction  understand  I  am  positively  glad  this 
intolerable  business  is  done,  nay,  glad  that  it  is  done  in  this  way 
rather  than  another.  What  part  of  the  MS.  I  can  split  into  review 
articles  I  will  serve  in  that  way  ;  for  the  present  leaving  the  whole 
narrative  complete  down  to  Luther,  to  serve  as  an  Introduction  to 


97 


The  Farm  at  Craigenjputtock. 

my  various  essays  on  German  Literature,  in  the  compass  of  which 
essays  (had  I  one  or  two  more,  for  example  Luther,  Lessing,  Her¬ 
der)  there  already  lies  the  best  History  of  German  Literature  that 
I  can  easily  write  ;  and  so  were  there  a  flourishing  prophetic  and 
circumspective  essay  appended  by  way  of  conclusion,  we  had  a 
very  fair  Geschichte,  or  at  least  a  zur  Geschichte ,  all  lying  cut  and 
dry,  which  can  be  published  at  any  time  if  it  is  wanted ;  if  not  in 
my  lifetime,  then  in  some  other,  till  which  consummation  it  will 
lie  here  eating  no  bread.  And  so  for  all  things,  my  brother,  let 
us  be  thankful.  I  will  work  no  more  in  ‘  Libraries,’  or,  if  I  can 
help  it,  in  compilation.  If  my  writing  cannot  be  sold,  it  shall  at 
least  have  been  written  out  of  my  own  heart.  Also  henceforth  I 
will  endeavour  to  be  my  own  editor,  having  now  arrived  at  the 
years  for  it.  Nay,  in  the  Devil’s  name,  have  I  not  a  kail  garden 
here  that  will  grow  potatoes  and  onions?  The  highest  of  men 
have  often  not  had  so  much. 

Too  much  of  your  sheet  is  already  filled  with  my  own  concerns. 
At  Scotsbrig,  as  I  must  tell  you,  matters  wore  a  more  tolerable 
aspect  than  I  anticipated.  Our  mother  was  as  well  as  usual, 
rather  better,  having  been  out  at  hay-making.  Our  father  was 
still  weak  and  somewhat  dispirited,  but  as  far  as  I  could  see  he 
had  no  disease  working  on  him,  save  loss  of  appetite  and  the  gen¬ 
eral  feebleness  belonging  to  those  years  he  has  now  arrived  at. 
He  sits  most  of  the  day,  reading  miscellaneously  enough,  wanders 
sometimes  among  the  labourers,  or  even  does  little  jobs  himself. 
He  seemed  much  quieter  and  better  tempered. 

Alick  has  written  that  he  cannot  keep  this  farm  longer  than 
Whitsunday,  finding  it  a  ruinous  concern.  Let  Mrs.  Welsh  ar¬ 
range  the  rest  herself.  Alick  knows  not  well  what  he  is  to  turn 
him  to.  Other  farms  might  be  had,  but  it  is  a  ticklish  business 
taking  farms  at  present.  Poor  outlook  there,  nothing  but  loss 
and  embarrassment.  I  often  calculate  that  the  land  is  all  let 
some  thirty  per  cent,  too  high ;  and  that  before  it  can  be  reduced 
the  whole  existing  race  of  farmers  must  be  ruined  :  that  is,  the 
whole  agricultural  tools  (which  are  capital)  broken  in  pieces  and 
burnt  in  the  landlords’  fire,  to  warm  liis  pointers  with. 

Ach  Gott  !  The  time  is  sick  and  out  of  joint.  The  perversities 
and  mismanagements,  moral  and  physical,  of  this  best- of -all  stage 
of  society  are  rising  to  a  head  ;  and  one  day,  see  it  who  may,  the 
whole  conceim  will  be  blown  up  to  Heaven,  and  fall  thence  to 
Tartarus,  and  a  new  and  fairer  era  will  rise  in  its  room.  Since 

Vol.  IT.— 7 


98 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

the  time  of  Nero  and  Jesus  Christ  there  is  no  record  of  such  em¬ 
barrassments  and  crying,  or,  what  is  still  worse,  silent  abomina¬ 
tions.  But  the  day,  as  we  said,  will  come ;  for  God  is  still  in 
Heaven,  whether  Henry  Brougham  and  Jeremiah  Bentham  know 
it  or  not ;  and  the  gig,  and  gigmania  1  must  rot  or  start  into  thou¬ 
sand  shivers,  and  bury  itself  in  the  ditch,  that  Man  may  have 
clean  roadway  towards  the  goal  whither  through  all  ages  he  is 
tending.  Fiat,  fiat! 

Make  my  kindest  compliments  to  my  old  friend  your  landlord,2 3 
whose  like,  take  him  for  all  in  all,  I  have  not  yet  looked  upon. 
Tell  him  that  none  more  honestly  desires  his  welfare.  Oh  were  I 
but  joined  to  such  a  man !  Would  the  Scotch  Kirk  but  expel 
him,  and  his  own  better  genius  lead  him  far  away  from  all  Apoca¬ 
lypses,  and  prophetic  and  theologic  cliimieras,  utterly  unworthy 
of  such  a  head,  to  see  the  world  as  it  here  lies  visible,  and  is,  that 
we  might  fight  together  for  God’s  true  cause  even  to  the  death  ! 
With  one  such  man  I  feel  as  if  I  could  defy  the  earth.  But 
X^atience !  patience  !  I  shall  find  one,  perhaps.  At  all  events, 
courage !  courage !  What  have  we  to  look  for  but  toil  and 
trouble  ?  What  drivellers  are  we  to  whimper  when  it  comes, 
and  not  front  it,  and  triumph  over  it. 

God  for  ever  bless  you,  dear  brother. 

Heartily  yours, 

T.  Carlyle. 

1  Allusion  to  Thurtell’s  trial:  ‘I  always  thought  him  a  respectable  man.’ 

4  What  do  3Tou  mean  by  respectable  ?  ’  ‘  He  kept  a  gig.  ’ 

3  Irving,  who  had  taken  John  Carlyle  to  live  with  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


A.D.  1830.  JET.  35. 

Trials  had  fallen  sharply  on  Carlyle,  entirely,  as  Jeffrey 
had  said,  through  his  own  generosity.  lie  had  advanced 
240 l.  in  the  education  and  support  of  his  brother  John. 
He  had  found  the  capital  to  stock  the  farm  at  Craigenput- 
tock,  and  his  brother  Alick  thus  had  received  from  him 
half  as  much  more — small  sums,  as  rich  men  estimate  such 
matters,  but  wrung  out  by  Carlyle  as  Horn  the  rock  by 
desperate  labour,  and  spared  out  of  his  own  and  his  wife’s 
necessities.  John  (perhaps  ultimately  Alexander,  but  of 
this  I  am  not  sure)  honourably  repaid  his  share  of  this 
debt  in  the  better  days  which  were  coming  to  him,  many 
years  before  fortune  looked  more  kindly  on  Carlyle  him¬ 
self.  But  as  yet  John  Carlyle  was  struggling  almost  pen¬ 
niless  in  London.  Alick’s farming  at  Craigenputtock,  which 
Carlyle  had  once  rashly  thought  of  undertaking  for  him¬ 
self,  had  proved  a  disastrous  failure,  and  was  now  to  be 
abandoned.1  The  pleasant  family  party  there  had  to  be 
broken  up,  and  his  brother  was  to  lose  the  companionship 
which  softened  the  dreariness  of  his  solitude.  Alick 

1  Carlyle,  however,  had  brought  his  genius  to  bear  on  the  cultivation  in  a 
single  instance,  though  he  could  not  save  the  farm.  A  field  at  Craigenputtock 
was  made  useless  by  a  crop  of  nettles  which  covered  the  whole  of  it.  They 
had  been  mowred  down  many  times,  but  only  grew  the  thicker ;  and  to  root 
them  out  would  have  been  a  serious  expense.  It  struck  Cai’lyle  that  all  plants 
were  exhausted  by  the  effort  of  flowering  and  seeding,  and  if  an  injury  would 
ever  prove  mortal  to  the  nettle  it  would  be  at  that  particular  crisis.  He 
watched  the  field  till  the  seed  was  almost  ripe,  then  mowed  it  once  more,  and 
with  complete  success.  So  at  least  he  described  the  experiment  to  me.  Gar¬ 
deners  will  know  if  the  success  was  accidental  or  was  due  to  some  other  cause. 


100  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Carlyle  liad  the  family  gift  of  humour.  His  letters  show 
that  had  he  been  educated  he  too  might  have  grown  into 
something  remarkable.  Alick  could  laugh  with  all  his 
heart  and  make  others  laugh.  His  departure  changed  the 
character  of  the  whole  scene.  Carlyle  himself  grew  dis¬ 
contented.  An  impatient  Radicalism  rings  through  his 
remarks  on  the  things  which  wTere  going  on  round  him. 
The  political  world  was  shaken  by  the  three  glorious  days 
in  Paris.  England,  following  the  example,  was  agitating 
for  Reform,  and  a  universal  and  increasing  distress  flung 
its  ominous  shadow  over  the  whole  working  community. 
Reports  of  it  all,  leaking  in  through  chance  visitors,  local 
newspapers,  or  letters  of  friends,  combined  with  his  own 
and  his  brother’s  indifferent  and  almost  hopeless  prospects, 
tended  too  naturally  to  encourage  his  gloomy  tendencies. 
Ever  on  the  watch  to  be  of  use  to  him,  the  warm-hearted 
J  effrey  was  again  at  hand  to  seduce  him  into  conformity 
with  the  dominant  Liberal  ways  of  thinking ;  that  in  the 
approaching  storm  he  might  at  least  open  a  road  for  him¬ 
self  to  his  own  personal  advancement.  In  August  Jeffrey 
pressed  his  two  friends  in  his  most  winning  language  to 
visit  him  at  Craigcrook.  Carlyle,  he  said,  wras  doing  no¬ 
thing,  and  could  employ  himself  no  better  than  to  come 
down  with  his  blooming  Eve  out  of  his  ‘  blasted  Paradise,’ 
and  seek  shelter  in  the  lower  world.  To  Mrs.  Carlyle  he 
promised  roses  and  a  blue  sea,  and  broad  shadows  stretch¬ 
ing  over  the  fields.  He  said  that  he  felt  as  if  destined 
to  do  them  real  service,  and  could  now  succeed  at  last. 
Carlyle  would  not  be  persuaded ;  so  in  September  the  Jef¬ 
freys  came  again  unlooked  for  to  Craigenputtock.  Carlyle 
was  with  his  family  at  Scotsbrig. 

Returning  (he  said,  Sept.  18,  1830)  late  in  the  evening  from  a 
long  ride,  I  found  an  express  from  Dumfries  that  the  Jeffreys 
would  be  all  at  Craigenputtock  that  night.  Of  the  riding  and 
running,  the  scouring  and  scraping  and  Caleb  Balderstone  arrang- 


Second  Visit  of  the  Jeffreys. 


101 


ing  my  unfortunate  but  shifty  and  invincible  Goody  must  have 
had,  I  say  nothing.  Enough,  she  is  the  cleverest  of  housewives, 
and  might  put  innumerable  blues  to  shame.  I  set  out  next  morn¬ 
ing,  and  on  arriving  here  actually  found  the  Dean  of  the  Faculty 
with  his  adherents,  sitting  comfortably  in  a  house  swept  and  gar¬ 
nished  awaiting,  my  arrival.  Of  the  shine  itself  I  have  room  for 
no  description.  It  all  went  prosperously  on,  and  yesterday  morn¬ 
ing  they  set  out  homewards,  reducing  us  instantly  to  our  own 
more  commodious  farthing  rushlight,  which  is  our  usual  illumina¬ 
tion.  The  worthy  Dean  is  not  very  well,  and  I  fear  not  very 
happy.  We  all  like  him  better  than  we  did.  He  is  the  most 
sparkling,  pleasant*  little  fellow  I  ever  saw  in  my  life. 

ITow  brilliant  Jeffrey  was,  how  lie  delighted  them  all 
with  his  anecdotes,  his  mockeries,  and  his  mimicries,  Car¬ 
lyle  has  amply  confessed  ;  and  he  has  acknowledged  the 
serious  excellence  which  lay  behind  the  light  exterior.  It 
was  on  this  occasion  that  he  sent  the  50Z.  to  Hazlitt  which 
came  too  late  and  found  poor  Hazlitt  dying.  It  was  on 
this  occasion  that  he  renewed  his  generous  offer  to  lift 
Carlyle  for  a  time  over  his  difficulties  out  of  his  own 
purse,  and  when  he  could  not  prevail,  promised  to  help 
John  Carlyle  in  London,  give  him  introductions,  and  if 
possible  launch  him  in  his  profession.  He  charged  him¬ 
self  with  the  Literary  History,  carried  it  off  with  him,  and 
undertook  to  recommend  it  to  Longman.  From  all  this 
Jeffrey  had  nothing  to  gain :  it  was  but  the  expression  of 
hearty  good  will  to  Carlyle  himself  for  his  own  sake  and 
for  the  sake  of  his  wife,  in  whom  he  had  at  least  an  equal 
interest.  He  wrote  to  her  as  cousin :  what  the  exact  rela¬ 
tionship  was  I  know  not ;  but  it  was  near  enough,  as  he 
thought,  to  give  him  a  right  to  watch  over  her  welfare ; 
and  the  thought  of  Carlyle  persisting,  in  the  face  of  im¬ 
minent  ruin,  in  what  to  him  appeared  a  vain  hallucina¬ 
tion,  and  the  thought  still  more  of  this  delicate  woman 
degraded  to  the  duties  of  the  mistress  of  a  farmhouse,  and 
obliged  to  face  another  winter  in  so  frightful  a  climate, 


102 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


was  simply  horrible  to  him.  She  had  not  concealed  from 
him  that  she  was  not  happy  at  Craigenpnttock ;  and  the 
longer  he  reflected  npon  it  the  more  out  of  humour  he  be¬ 
came  with  the  obstinate  philosopher  who  had  doomed  her 
to  live  there  under  such  conditions. 

It  is  evident  from  his  letters  that  he  held  Carlyle  to  be 
gravely  responsible.  He  respected  many  sides  of  his  char¬ 
acter,  but  he  looked  on  him  as  under  the  influence  of  a 
curious  but  most  reprehensible  vanity,  which  would  not 
and  could  not  land  him  anywhere  but  in  poverty  and  dis¬ 
appointment,  while  all  the  time  the  world  was  ready  and 
eager  to  open  its  arms  and  lavish  its  liberality  upon  him 
if  he  would  but  consent  to  walk  in  its  ways  and  be  like 
other  men.  In  this  humour  nothing  that  Carlyle  did 
would  please  him.  He  quarrelled  with  the  ‘  Literary  His¬ 
tory.’  He  disliked  the  views  in  it ;  he  found  fault  with 
the  style.  After  reading  it,  he  had  to  say  that  he  did  not 
see  how  he  could  be  of  use  in  the  obstetrical  department 
to  which  he  had  aspired  in  its  behalf. 

Hang  them !  (said  Carlyle  bitterly,  as  one  disappointment  trod 
on  the  heels  of  another)-,  hang  them  !  I  have  a  book  in  me  that 
will  canse  ears  to  tingle,  and  one  day  out  it  must  and  will  issue. 
In  this  valley  of  the  shadow  of  magazine  editor's  we  shall  not 
always  linger.  Courage  !  Not  hope — for  she  was  always  a  liar — • 
but  courage  !  courage  ! 

An  account  of  Jeffrey’s  visit  is  inserted  in  the  Journal. 
Carlyle  was  evidently  trying  to  think  as  well  as  he  could 
about  his  great  friend,  and  was  not  altogether  succeeding. 

The  Jeffreys  were  here  for  about  a  week.  Yery  good  and  inter¬ 
esting  beyond  wont  was  our  worthy  Dean.  He  is  growing  old, 
and  seems  dispirited  and  partly  unhappy.  The  fairest  cloak  has 
its  wrong  side  where  the  seams  and  straggling  stitches  afflict  the 
eye !  Envy  no  man.  Nescis  quo  urit.  Thou  knowest  not  where 
the  shoe  pinches. 

Jeffrey’s  essential  talent  sometimes  seems  to  me  to  have  been 
that  of  a  Goldoni,  some  comic  dramatist,  not  without  a  touch  of 


103 


Second  Visit  of  the  Jeffreys. 

fine  lyrical  pathos.  He  is  the  best  mimic  in  the  lowest  and  highest 
senses  I  ever  saw.  All  matters  that  have  come  before  him  he  has 
taken  up  in  little  dainty  comprehensible  forms  ;  chiefly  logical — 
for  he  is  a  Scotchman  and  a  lawyer — and  encircled  with  sparkles 
of  conversational  wit  or  persiflage;  yet  with  deeper  study  he  would 
have  found  poetical  forms  for  them,  and  his  persiflage  might  have 
incorporated  itself  with  the  love  and  pure  human  feeling  that 
dwells  deeply  in  him.  This  last  is  his  highest  strength,  though 
he  himself  hardly  knows  the  significance  of  it ;  he  is  one  of  the 
most  loving  men  alive  ;  has  a  true  kindness  not  of  blood  and  habit 
only,  but  of  soul  and  spirit.  He  cannot  do  without  being  loved. 
He  is  in  the  highest  degree  social ;  and  in  defect  of  this  gregari¬ 
ous;  which  last  condition  he  in  these  bad  times  has  for  the  most 
part  had  to  content  himself  withal.  Every  way  indeed  he  has 
fallen  on  evil  days  :  the  prose  spirit  of  the  world — to  which  world 
his  kindliness  draws  him  so  strongly  and  so  closely — has  choked 
up  and  all  but  withered  the  better  poetic  spirit  he  derived  from 
nature.  Whatever  is  highest  he  entertains,  like  other  Whigs,  only 
as  an  ornament,  as  an  appendage.  The  great  business  of  man  he, 
intellectually,  considers,  as  a  wordling  does,  to  be  happy.  I  have 
heard  him  say,  ‘  If  folly  were  the  happiest  I  would  be  a  fool.’ 
Yet  his  daily  life  belies  this  doctrine,  and  says — ‘  Though  good¬ 
ness  were  the  most  wretched,  I  would  be  good.’ 

In  conversation  he  is  brilliant,  or  rather  sparkling,  lively,  kind, 
willing  either  to  speak  or  listen,  and  above  all  men  I  have  ever 
seen  ready  and  copious,  on  the  whole  exceedingly  pleasant  in 
light  talk — yet  alas !  light,  light,  too  light.  He  will  talk  of 
nothing  earnestly ,  though  his  look  sometimes  betrays  an  earnest 
feeling.  He  starts  contradictions  in  such  cases,  and  argues, 
argues.  Neither  is  his  arguing  like  that  of  a  thinker,  but  of  the 
advocate — victory,  not  truth.  A  right  terra?,  filius  would  feel  ir¬ 
resistibly  disposed  to  wash  him  away.  He  is  not  a  strong  man  in 
any  shape,  but  nimble  and  tough. 

He  stands  midway  between  God  and  Mammon,  and  his  preach¬ 
ing  through  life  has  been  an  attempt  to  reconcile  them.  Hence 
his  popularity — a  thing  easily  accountable  when  one  looks  at  the 
world  and  at  him,  but  little  honourable  to  either.  Literature  ! 
poetry!  Except  by  a  dim  indestructible  instinct  which  he  has 
never  dared  to  avow,  yet  being  a  true  poet  in  his  way  could  never 
eradicate,  he  knows  not  what  they  mean.  A  true  newspaper  critio 
on  the  great  scale  ;  no  priest,  but  a  concionator. 


104 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Yet  on  tlie  whole  he  is  about  the  best  man  I  ever  saw.  Some¬ 
times  I  think  he  will  abjure  the  devil  if  he  live,  and  become  a 
pure  light.  Already  he  is  a  most  tricksy,  dainty,  beautiful  little 
spirit.  I  have  seen  gleams  on  the  face  and  eyes  of  the  man  that 
let  you  look  into  a  higher  country.  God  bless  him  !  These  jot¬ 
tings  are  as  sincere  as  I  could  write  them ;  yet  too  dim  and  inac¬ 
curately  compacted.  I  see  the  nail,  but  have  not  here  hit  it  on 
the  head. 

Meanwhile,  and  in  the  midst  of  Jeffrey’s  animadver¬ 
sions,  Carlyle  himself  was  about  to  take  a  higher  flight. 
He  4  had  a  book  in  him  which  would  cause  ears  to  tingle.’ 
Out  of  his  discontent,  out  of  his  impatience  with  the  hard 
circumstances  which  crossed,  thwarted,  and  pressed  him, 
there  was  growing  in  his  mind  4  Sartor  Hesartus.’  He 
had  thoughts  fermenting  in  him  which  were  struggling  to 
be  uttered.  He  had  something  real  to  say  about  the  world 
and  man’s  position  in  it  to  which,  could  it  but  find  fit 
expression,  he  knew  that  attention  must  be  paid.  The 
4  clothes  philosophy,’  which  had  perhaps  been  all  which  his 
first  sketch  contained,  gave  him  the  necessary  form.  His 
own  history,  inward  and  outward,  furnished  substance ; 
some  slight  invention  being  all  that  was  needed  to  dis¬ 
guise  his  literal  individuality ;  and  in  the  autumn  of  the 
year  he  set  himself  down  passionately  to  work.  Fast  as 
he  could  throw  his  ideas  upon  paper  the  material  grew 
upon  him.  The  origin  of  the  book  is  still  traceable  in  the 
half  fused,  tumultuous  condition  in  which  the  metal  was 
poured  into  the  mould.  With  all  his  efforts  in  calmer 
times  to  give  it  artistic  harmony  lie  could  never  fully  suc- 
seed.  4  There  are  but  a  few  pages  in  it,’  he  said  to  me, 
4  which  are  rightly  done.’  It  is  well  perhaps  that  he  did 
not  succeed.  The  incompleteness  of  the  smelting  shows 
all  the  more  the  actual  condition  of  his  mind.  If  defec¬ 
tive  as  a  work  of  art,  4  Sartor  ’  is  for  that  very  reason  a 
revelation  of  Carlvle’s  individualitv. 

The  idea  had  first  struck  him  when  on  a  visit  with  Mrs. 


Growth  of  4 Sartor  Resartus? 


105 


Carlyle  at  Templand.  Customs,  institutions,  religious 
creeds,  what  were  they  but  clothes  in  which  human  crea¬ 
tures  covered  their  native  nakedness,  and  enabled  men 
themselves  to  live  harmoniously  and  decently  together? 
Clothes,  dress,  changed  with  the  times ;  they  grew  old, 
they  were  elaborate,  they  were  simple  ;  they  varied  with 
fashion  or  habit  of  life ;  they  were  the  outward  indicators 
of  the  inward  and  spiritual  nature.  The  analogy  gave  the 
freest  scope  and  play  for  the  wilfullest  and  wildest  humour. 
The  Teufelsdrbckh,  which  we  have  seen  seeking  in  vain 
for  admission  into  London  magazines,  was  but  a  first  rude 
draft.  Parts  of  this  perhaps  survive  as  they  were  origi¬ 
nally  written  in  the  opening  chapters.  The  single  article, 
when  it  was  returned  to  him,  first  expanded  into  two  ; 
then  he  determined  to  make  a  book  of  it,  into  which  he 
could  project  his  entire  self.  The  4  Foreign  Quarterly5 
continued  good  to  him.  He  could  count  on  an  occasional 
place  in  4  Fraser.’  The  part  already  written  of  his 
4  Literary  History,’  slit  into  separate  articles,  would  keep 
him  alive  till  the  book  was  finished.  He  had  been  well 
paid  for  his  4  Life  of  Schiller.’  If  the  execution  corre¬ 
sponded  to  the  conception,  that  4  Sartor  ’  would  be  ten  times 
better. 

On  the  19th  of  October  he  described  what  he  was  about 
to  his  brother.  4 1  am  leading  the  stillest  life,  musing 
amidst  the  pale  sunshine,  or  rude  winds  of  October  Till 
the  Trees,  wlien  I  go  walking  ift  this  almost  ghastly  soli¬ 
tude,  and  for  the  rest  writing  with  impetuosity.  I  think 
it  not  impossible  that  I  may  see  you  this  winter  in  Lon¬ 
don.  I  mean  to  come  whenever  I  can  spare  the  money, 
that  I  may  look  about  me  among  men  for  a  little.  What 
I  am  writing  at  is  the  strangest  of  all  things.  A  very 
singular  piece,  I  assure  you.  It  glances  from  heaven  to 
earth  and  back  again,  in  a  strange  satirical  frenzy,  whether 
fine  or  not  remains  to  be  seen.’ 


106 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


Near  tlie  same  date  he  writes  to  his  mother : — 

The  wife  and.  I  are  very  quiet  here,  and  accustoming  ourselves 
as  fast  as  we  can  to  the  stillness  of  winter  which  is  fast  coming  on. 
These  are  the  greyest  and  most  silent  days  I  ever  saw.  My  besom, 
as  I  sweep  up  the  withered  leaves,  might  be  heard  at  a  furlong’s 
distance.  The  woods  are  getting  very  parti-coloured ;  the  old 
trees  quite  bare.  All  witnesses  that  another  year  has  travelled 
away.  What  good  and  evil  has  it  brought  us  ?  May  God  sanctify 
them  both  to  every  one  of  us  !  I  study  not  to  get  too  wae ;  but 
often  I  think  of  many  solemn  and  sad  things,  which  indeed  I  do 
not  wish  to  forget.  We  are  all  in  God’s  hand ;  otherwise  this 
world,  which  is  not  wholly  a  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  were 
too  frightful.  Why  should  we  fear  ?  Let  us  hope.  We  are  in  the 
place  of  hope.  Our  life  is  a  hope.  But  far  better  than  all  rea¬ 
sonings  for  cheerfulness  is  the  diligence  I  use  in  following  my 
daily  business.  For  the  last  three  weeks  I  have  been  writing  my 
task-work  again,  and  get  along  wonderfully  well.  What  it  is  to  be 
I  cannot  yet  tell — whether  a  book  or  a  string  of  magazine  articles. 
We  hope  the  former ;  but  in  either  case  it  may  be  worth  some¬ 
thing. 

‘  Sartor  ’  was  indeed  a  free-flowing  torrent,  the  outburst- 
ing  of  emotions  which  as  yet  had  found  no  escape.  The 
discontent  which  in  a  lower  shape  was  rushing  into  French 
.  Revolutions,  Reform  Bills,  Emancipation  Acts,  Socialism, 
and  Bristol  riots  and  rick  burnings,  had  driven  Carlyle  into 
far  deeper  inquiries — inquiries  into  the  how  and  why  of 
these  convulsions  of  the  surface.  The  Hebrew  spiritual 
robes  he  conceived  were  no  longer  suitable,  and  that  this 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  The  Hebrew  clothes  had 
become  ‘  old  clothes  ’ — not  the  fresh  wrought  garments 
adapted  to  man’s  real  wants,  but  sold  at  second-hand,  and 
gaping  at  all  their  seams.  Radical  also  politically7  Carlyle 
was  at  this  time.  The  constitution  of  societv,  as  he  looked 
at  it,  was  unjust  from  end  to  end.  The  workers  were 
starving ;  the  idle  were  revelling  in  luxury.  Radicalism, 
as  he  understood  it,  meant  the  return  of  Astraea — an  ap¬ 
proach  to  equity  in  the  apportionment  of  good  and  evil  in 


Political  Speculation. 


107 


this  world  ;  and  on  the  intellectual  side,  if  not  encourage¬ 
ment  of  truth,  at  least  the  withdrawal  of  exclusive  public 
support  of  what  was  not  true,  or  only  partially  true.  He 
did  then  actually  suppose  that  the  Reform  Bill  meant 
something  of  that  kind ;  that  it  was  a  genuine  effort  of 
honourable  men  to  clear  the  air  of  imposture.  He  had  not 
realised,  what  life  afterwards  taught  him,  that  the  work 
of  centuries  was  not  to  be  accomplished  by  a  single  politi¬ 
cal  change,  and  that  the  Reform  Bill  was  hut  a  singeing 
of  the  dungheap.  Even  then  he  was  no  believer  in  the 
miraculous  effects  to  be  expected  from  an  extended  suf¬ 
frage.  He  knew  well  enough  that  the  welfare  of  the  State, 
like  the  welfare  of  everything  else,  required  that  the  wise 
and  good  should  govern,  and  the  unwise  and  selfish  should 
be  governed ;  that  of  all  methods  of  discovering  and  pro 
moting  your  wise  man  the  voice  of  a  mob  was  the  least 
promising,  and  that  if  Reform  meant  only  liberty,  and  the 
abolition  of  all  authority,  just  or  unjust,  we  might  be 
worse  off  perhaps  than  we  were  already.  But  he  was  im¬ 
patient  and  restless ;  stung  no  doubt  by  resentment  at  the 
alternative  offered  to  himself  either  to  become  a  humbug 
or  to  be  beaten  from  the  field  by  starvation  ;  and  the 
memorable  epitaph  on  Count  Zaehdarm  and  his  achieve¬ 
ments  in  this  world  showed  in  what  direction  his  intellec¬ 
tual  passions  were  running. 

It  seems  that  when  Jeffrey  was  at  Craigenputtock  Car¬ 
lyle  must  have  opened  his  mind  to  him  on  these  matters, 
and  still  more  fully  in  some  letter  afterwards.  Jeffrey, 
who  was  a  Whig  of  the  Whigs,  who  believed  in  liberty, 
but  by  liberty  meant  the  right  of  every  man  to  do  as  he 
nleased  with  Ids  own  as  long  as  he  did  not  interfere  with 
his  neighbour,  had  been  made  seriously  angry.  Mysticism 
was  a  pardonable  illusion,  provoking  enough  while  it  lasted, 
but  likely  to  clear  off,  as  the  morning  mist  when  the  sun 
rises  higher  above  the  horizon ;  but  these  political  views, 


108 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


taken  up  especially  by  a  man  so  determined  and  so  pas¬ 
sionately  in  earnest  as  Carlyle,  were  another  thing,  and  an 
infinitely  more  dangerous  thing.  Reform  within  moder¬ 
ate  limits  was  well  enough,  but  these  new  opinions  if  they 
led  to  anything  must  lead  to  revolution.  Jeffrey  believed 
that  they  were  wild  and  impracticable  ;  that  if  ever  mis¬ 
guided  missionaries  of  sedition  could  by  eloquence  and 
resolute  persistence  persuade  the  multitude  to  adopt  notions 
subversive  of  the  rights  of  property,  the  result  could  only 
be  universal  ruin.  His  regard  and  even  esteem  for  Car- 
lyle  seem  to  have  sensibly  diminished  from  this  time.  He 
half  feared  him  for  the  mischief  which  he  might  do,  half 
gave  him  up  as  beyond  help — at  least  as  beyond  help  from 
himself.  He  continued  friendly.  He  was  still  willing;  to 

t,  O 

help  Carlyle  within  the  limits  which  his  conscience  allowed, 
but  from  this  moment  the  desire  to  push  him  forward  in 
the  politico-literary  world  cooled  down  or  altogether  ceased. 

He  tried  the  effect,  however,  of  one  more  lecture,  the 
traces  of  which  are  visible  in  4  Sartor.’  He  had  a  horror 
of  Radicalism,  he  said.  It  was  nothing  but  the  old  feud 
against  property,  made  formidable  by  the  intelligence  and 
conceit  of  those  who  had  none.  .  .  .  Carlyle’s  views 
either  meant  the  destruction  of  the  right  of  property  alto¬ 
gether,  and  the  establishment  of  a  universal  co-operative 
system — and  this  no  one  in  his  senses  could  contemplate — 
or  they  were  nonsense.  Anything  short  of  the  abolition 
of  property,  sumptuary  laws,  limitation  of  the  accumula¬ 
tion  of  fortunes,  compulsory  charity,  or  redivision  of  land, 
would  not  make  the  poor  better  off,  but  would  make  all 
poor  ;  would  lead  to  the  destruction  of  all  luxury,  elegance, 
art,  and  intellectual  culture,  and  reduce  men  to  a  set  of 
savages  scrambling  for  animal  subsistence.  The  institu- 
tion  of  property  brought  some  evils  with  it,  and  a  revolt¬ 
ing  spectacle  of  inequality.  But  to  touch  it  would  entail 
evils  still  greater  ;  for  though  the  poor  suffered,  their  lot 


Political  Speculations. 


109 


was  only  what  the  lot  of  the  great  mass  of  mankind  must 
necessarily  be  under  every  conceivable  condition.  They 
would  escape  the  pain  of  seeing  others  better  off  than  they 
were,  but  they  would  be  no  better  off  themselves,  while 
they  would  lose  the  mental  improvement  which  to  a  cer¬ 
tain  extent  spread  downwards  through  society  as  long  as 
culture  existed  anywhere,  and  at  the  same  time  the  hope 
and  chance  of  rising  to  a  higher  level,  which  was  itself 
enjoyment  even  if  it  were  never  realised.  Rich  men 
after  all  spent  most  of  their  income  on  the  poor.  Except 
a  small  waste  of  food  on  their  servants  and  horses,  they 
were  mere  distributors  among  frugal  and  industrious  work¬ 
men. 

If  Carlyle  meant  to  be  a  politician,  Jeffrey  begged  him 
to  set  about  it  modestly  and  patiently,  and  submit  to  study 
the  questions  a  little  under  those  who  had  studied  them 
longer.  If  he  was  a  Radical,  why  did  he  keep  two  horses 
himself,  producing  nothing  and  consuming  the  food  of 
six  human  creatures,  that  his  own  diaphragm  might  be 
healthily  agitated?  Riding-horses  interfered  with  the 
subsistence  of  men  five  hundred  times  more  than  the  un¬ 
fortunate  partridges.1  So  again  Carlyle  had  adopted  the 
Radical  objections  to  machinery.  Jeffrey  inquired  if  he 
meant  to  burn  carts  and  ploughs — nay,  even  spades  too, 
for  spades  were  but  machines?  Perhaps  he  would  end 
by  only  allowing  men  to  work  with  one  hand,2  that  the 
available  work  might  employ  a  larger  number  of  persons. 
Yet  for  such  aims  as  these  Carlyle  thought  a  Radical  in¬ 
surrection  justifiable  and  its  success  to  be  desired.  The 
very  first  enactments  of  a  successful  revolution  would  be 
in  this  spirit :  the  overseers  of  the  poor  would  be  ordered 
to  give  twelve  or  twenty  shillings  to  every  man  who  could 

1  See  the  Zaehdarra  Epitaph. 

2  A  curiously  accurate  prophecy  on  Jeffrey’s  part,  not  as  regarded  Car' 
lyle,  but  as  to  the  necessary  tendency  of  the  unionist  theory. 


110 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


not,  or  said  lie  could  not,  earn  as  much  by  the  labour  to 
which  he  had  been  accustomed. 

Speculations  on  these  and  kindred  subjects  are  found 
scattered  up  and  down  in  4  Sartor.7  Jeffrey  was  crediting 
Carlyle  with  extravagances  which  it  is  impossible  that 
even  in  his  then  bitter  humour  he  could  have  seriously 
entertained.  He  was  far  enough  from  desiring  insurrec¬ 
tion,  although  a  conviction  did  lay  at  the  very  bottom  of 
his  mind  that  incurably  unjust  societies  would  find  in  in¬ 
surrection  and  conflagration  their  natural  consummation 
and  end.  But  it  is  likely  that  he  talked  with  fierce  exag¬ 
geration  on  such  subjects.  He  always  did  talk  so.  It  is 
likely,  too,  that  he  had  come  to  some  hasty  conclusions  on 
the  intractable  problems  of  social  life,  and  believed  changes 
to  be  possible  and  useful  which  fuller  knowledge  of  man¬ 
kind  showed  him  to  be  dreams.  Before  a  just  allotment 
of  wages  in  this  world  could  be  arrived  at — just  payment 
according  to  real  desert — he  perceived  at  last  that  man¬ 
kind  must  be  themselves  made  just,  and  that  such  a  trans¬ 
formation  is  no  work  of  a  political  revolution.  Carlyle 
too  had  been  attracted  to  the  St.  Simonians.  He  had 
even  in  a  letter  to  Goethe  expressed  some  interest  and 
hope  in  them  ;  and  the  wise  old  man  had  warned  him  off 
from  the  dangerous  illusion.  4  Yon  der  Societe  St.  Simo- 
nien  bitte  Dich  fern  zu  halten,’  Goethe  had  said.  4  From 
the  Societv  of  the  St.  Simonians  I  entreat  you  to  hold 
yourself  clear.71  Jeffrey’s  practical  sense  had  probably 
suggested  difficulties  to  Carlyle  which  he  had  overlooked  ; 
and  Goethe  carried  more  weight  with  him  than  Jeffrey. 
4  Sartor 7  may  have  been  improved  by  theii\remonstrances  ; 
yet  there  lie  in  it  the  germs  of  all  Carlyle’s  future  teach¬ 
ing — a  clear  statement  of  problems  of  the  gravest  import, 
which  cry  for  a  solution,  which  insist  on  a  solution,  yet  on 

1  This  sentence  alone  survives  of  Goethe’s  letter  on  the  occasion,  extracted 
in  one  of  Carlyle’s  own. 


Ill 


Political  Speculations. 

wliich  political  economy  and  Whig  political  philosophy 
fail  utterly  to  throw  the  slightest  light.  I  will  mention 
one  to  which  Carlyle  to  his  latest  hour  was  continually  re¬ 
turning.  Jeffrey  was  a  Malthusian.  He  had  a  horror 
and  dread  of  over-population.  4  Sartor  ’  answers  him  with 
a  scorn  which  recalls  Swift’s  famous  suggestion  of  a  rem¬ 
edy  for  the  distresses  of  Ireland. 

The  old  Spartans  had  a  wiser  method,  and  went  out  and  hunted 
down  their  Helots,  and  speared  and  spitted  them,  when  they 
grew  too  numerous.  With  our  improved  fashions  of  hunting, 
now,  after  the  invention  of  firearms  and  standing  armies,  how 
much  easier  were  such  a  hunt.  Perhaps  in  the  most  thickly 
peopled  countries  some  three  days  annually  might  suffice  to  shoot 
all  the  able-bodied  paupers  that  had  accumulated  within  the 
year.  Let  Government  think  of  this.  The  expense  were  trifling; 
the  very  carcases  would  pay  it.  Have  them  salted  and  barrelled. 
Could  you  not  victual  therewith,  if  not  army  and  navy,  yet  richly 
such  infirm  paupers,  in  workhouses  and  elsewhere,  as  enlightened 
charity,  dreading  no  evil  of  them,  might  see  good  to  keep  alive  ? 

And  yet  there  must  be  something  wrong.  A  full-formed  horse 
will  in  any  market  bring  from  twenty  to  two  hundred  friedriclis 
d’or.  Such  is  his  worth  to  the  world.  A  full-formed  man  is  not 
only  worth  nothing  to  the  world,  but  the  world  could  afford  him 
a  good  round  sum  would  he  simply  engage  to  go  and  hang  him¬ 
self.  Nevertheless,  which  of  the  two  was  the  more  cunningly  de¬ 
vised  article,  even  as  an  engine  ?  Good  heavens  !  a  white  Euro¬ 
pean  man,  standing  on  his  two  legs,  with  his  two  five-fingered 
hands  at  his  shacklebones,  and  miraculous  head  on  his  shoulders, 
is  worth,  I  should  say,  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  horses  ! 

What  portion  of  this  inconsiderable  terraqueous  globe  have  ye 
actually  tilled  and  delved  till  it  will  grow  no  more  ?  How  thick 
stands  your  population  in  the  pampas  and  savannas  of  America, 
round  ancient  Carthage  and  in  the  interior  of  Africa,  on  both 
slopes  of  the  Atlantic  chain,  in  the  central  platform  of  Asia,  in 
Spain,  Greece,  Turkey,  Crim  Tartary,  and  the  Curragh  of  Kildare  ? 
One  man  in  one  year,  as  I  have  understood  it,  if  you  lend  him 
earth,  will  feed  himself  and  nine  others.  Alas  !  where  are  now 
the  Hengsts  and  Alarics  of  our  still  growing,  still  expanding 
Europe,  who  when  their  home  is  grown  too  narrow  will  enlist,  and 


112 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

like  fire-pillars  guide  onwards  those  superfluous  masses  of  in¬ 
domitable  living  valour,  equipped  not  now  with  the  battle-axe 
and  war-chariot,  but  with  the  steam-engine  and  ploughshare  ? 
Where  are  they  ?  Preserving  their  game ! 

When  Carlyle  published  his  views  on  ‘the  Nigger  ques¬ 
tion,’  his  friends  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  were  aston¬ 
ished  and  outraged.  Yet  the  thought  in  that  pamphlet 
and  the  thought  in  4  Sartor’  is  precisely  the  same.  When 
a  man  can  be  taught  to  work  and  made  to  work,  he  has  a 
distinct  value  in  the  world  appreciable  by  money  like  the 
value  of  a  horse.  In  the  state  of  liberty  where  he  belongs 
to  nobody,  and  his  industry  cannot  be  calculated  upon,  he 
makes  his  father  poorer  when  he  is  born.  Slavery  might 
be  a  bad  system,  but  under  it  a  child  was  worth  at  least  as 
much  as  a  foal,  and  the  master  was  interested  in  rearing  it. 
Abolish  slavery  and  substitute  anarchy  in  the  place  of  it, 
and  the  parents,  themselves  hardly  able  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together,  will  bless  God  when  a  timely  fever  relieves 
them  of  a  troublesome  charge. 

This  fact,  for  fact  it  is,  still  waits  for  elucidation,  and  I 
often  heard  Carlyle  refer  to  it ;  yet  he  was  always  able  to 
see  ‘  the  other  side.’  No  ITengst  or  Alaric  had  risen  in  the 
fifty  years  which  had  passed  since  he  had  written  4  Sartor ; 9 
yet  not  long  before  his  death  he  was  talking  to  me  of 
America  and  of  the  success  with  which  the  surplus  popula¬ 
tion  of  Europe  had  been  carried  across  the  sea  and  dis¬ 
tributed  over  that  enormous  continent.  Frederick  himself, 
he  said,  could  not  have  done  it  better,  even  with  absolute 
power  and  unlimited  resources,  than  it  had  4  done  itself  ’ 
by  the  mere  action  of  unfettered  liberty. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 


A.  D.  1831.  JET.  36. 

A  change  meanwhile  came  over  the  face  of  English  politics. 
Lord  Grey  became  Prime  Minister,  and  Brougham  Chancel¬ 
lor,  and  all  Britain  was  wild  over  Eeform  and  the  coming 
millennium.  Jeffrey  went  into  Parliament  and  was  re¬ 
warded  for  his  long  services  by  being  taken  into  the  new 
Government  as  Lord  Advocate.  Of  course  he  had  to 
remove  to  London,  and  his  letters,  which  henceforward 
were  addressed  chiefly  to  Mrs.  Carlyle,  were  filled  with 
accounts  of  Cabinet  meetings,  dinners,  Parliamentary 
speeches — all  for  the  present  going  merry  as  a  marriage 
bell.  Carlyle  at  Craigenputtock  continued  steady  to  his 
work.  His  money  difficulties  seemed  likely  to  mend  a  lit¬ 
tle.  Hapier  was  overcoming  his  terror,  and  might  perhaps 
take  articles  again  from  him  for  the  ‘  Edinburgh.’  The 
newT  ‘Westminster’  was  open  to  him.  The  ‘Foreign 
Quarterly  ’  had  not  deserted  him,  and  behveen  them  and 
‘  Fraser  ’  he  might  still  find  room  enough  at  his  disposal. 
The  Literary  History  was  cut  up  as  had  been  proposed ; 
the  best  parts  of  it  wTere  published  in  the  coming  year  in 
the  form  of  Essays,  and  now  constitute  the  greater  part  of 
the  third  volume  of  the  ‘Miscellanies.’  A  second  paper 
on  Schiller,  and  another  on  Jean  Paul,  both  of  which  had 
been  for  some  time  seeking  in  vain  for  an  editor  wdio  would 
take  them,  were  admitted  into  the  ‘Foreign  Beview’  and 
‘  Eraser.’  Sufficient  money  was  thus  ultimately  obtained 
to  secure  the  household  from  starvation.  But  some  months 

passed  before  these  arrangements  could  be  completed,  and 
Vol.  II  — 8 


114 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


4  Sartor  ’  liad  to  go  on  with  the  prospect  still  gloomy  in  the 
extreme.  Irving  had  seen  and  glanced  over  the  first  sketch 
of  it  when  it  was  in  London,  and  had  sent  a  favourable 
opinion.  Carlyle  himself,  notwithstanding  his  work,  found 
time  for  letters  to  his  brother,  who  was  still  hankering 
after  literature. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock :  February  2G,  1881. 

Till  Wednesday  I  am  preparing  ‘  Reineke  ’  and  various  little 
etceteras,  after  which  I  purpose  seriously  inclining  heart  and  hand 
to  the  finishing  of  ‘  Teufelsdrockh  ’ — if  indeed  it  be  finishable. 
How  could  you  remember  Irving’s  criticism  so  well  ?  Tell  him  it 
was  quite  like  himself ;  he  said  all  that  was  friendly,  flattering, 
and  encouraging,  yet  with  the  right  faults  kindly  indicated — a 
true  picture  painted  couleur  de  rose.  I  will  make  the  attempt. 
And  now,  dear  Jack,  as  to  the  last  fraction  of  the  letter ;  a  word 
about  you.  Sorry  am  I  to  see  your  supplies  running  so  low,  and 
so  little  outlook  for  bettering  them  :  yet  what  advice  to  give  you  ? 
I  have  said  a  thousand  times  when  you  could  not  believe  me, 
that  the  trade  of  literature  was  worse  as  a  trade  than  that  of  honest 
street  sweeping ;  that  I  know  not  how  a  man  without  some  degree 
of  prostitution  could  live  by  it,  unless  indeed  he  were  situated 
like  me,  and  could  live  upon  potatoes  and  point  if  need  were — as 
indeed  need  has  been,  is,  and  will  be,  with  better  men  than  me. 
If  the  angels  have  any  humour  I  am  sure  they  laughed  heartily  to¬ 
day,  as  I  myself  have  repeatedly  done,  to  see  Alick  setting  off  with 
twelve  pence  of  copper,  a  long  roll  like  a  pencase,  the  whole  dis¬ 
posable  capital  of  both  our  households.  I  realised  six,  he  six,  so 
he  was  enabled  to  go.  I  was  for  keejjing  three,  but  he  looked 
wistfully,  and  I  gave  him  them  with  loud  laughter.  He  had  bor¬ 
rowed  all  our  money  and  did  not  get  payments  last  Wednesday, 
but  surely  will  on  Monday.  ...  I  could  also  prove  that  a  life  of 
scribbling  is  the  worst  conceivable  for  cultivating  thought,  which 
is  the  noblest,  and  the  only  noble  thing  in  us.  Your  ideas  never 
get  root,  cannot  be  sown,  but  are  ground  down  from  day  to  day. 
Oh  that  I  heard  of  any  medicine  for  your  practising,  were  it  only 
on  the  lower  animals.  However,  patience — courage.  The  time  is 
coming — dear  Jack,  keep  a  stout  heart ;  I  think  I  notice  in  you  a 
considerable  improvement  since  you  left  us;  a  far  more  manly 


Literary  Prospects. 


115 


bearing.  Never  despond.  If  you  see  no  feasible  method  of  ever 
fairly  attempting  to  get  professional  employment  in  London,  why 
then  I  think  I  would  leave  London.  Do  not  fall  into  straits.  Do 
not  involve  yourself  in  debt.  Come  out  of  it.  Come  hither. 
Share  our  provisions,  such  as  the  good  God  gives  us — our  roof  and 
our  welcome,  and  we  will  consider  which  way  you  are  next  to  try 
it.  Above  all  hide  nothing  from  me,  and  I  will  hide  it  from  the 
Scotsbrig  people  whenever  you  bid  me. 

And  so  God  bless  you,  dear  brother.  Fear  nothing  but  behav¬ 
ing  unwisely. 

T.  Carlyle. 

Alick  Carlyle  was  to  leave  Craigenputtock  at  Whitsun¬ 
tide,  a  neighbouring  grazier  having  offered  the  full  rent  for 
the"  farm,  which  Alick  was  unable  to  afford.  Where  he 
was  to  go  and  what  was  to  become  of  him  was  the  great 
family  anxiety. 

Little  things  (said  Carlyle)  are  great  to  little  men,  to  little  man ; 
for  what  was  the  Moscow  expedition  to  Napoleon  but  the  offering 
also  for  a  new  and  larger  farm  whereon  to  till  ?  and  this  too  was 
but  a  mere  clout  of  a  farm  compared  with  the  great  farm  whose 
name  is  Time ,  or  the  quite  boundless  freehold  which  is  called 
Eternity.  Let  us  feel  our  bits  of  anxieties  therefore,  and  make 
our  bits  of  efforts,  and  think  no  shame  of  them. 

Both  brothers  were  virtually  thrown  upon  his  hands, 
while  he  seemingly  was  scarce  able  to  take  care  of  himself 
and  his  wife.  When  Alick  was  gone  he  and  she  would  be 
left  ‘  literally  unter  vier  Augen ,  alone  among  the  whin- 
stone  deserts ;  within  fifteen  miles  not  one  creature  they 
could  so  much  as  speak  to,’  and  ‘  Sartor  ’  was  to  be  written 
under  such  conditions.  Another  winter  at  Craigenputtock 
in  absolute  solitude  was  a  prospect  too  formidable  to  be 
faced.  They  calculated  that  with  the  utmost  economy 
they  might  have  50 1.  in  hand  by  the  end  of  the  summer, 

6  Teufelsdrockh  ’  could  by  that  time  be  finished.  Mrs. 
Carlyle  could  stay  and  take  care  of  Craigenputtock,  while 
Carlyle  himself  would  visit  ‘  the  great  beehive  and  wasp’s 


116 


Life  of  Thomas  Ca/rhjh 


nest  of  London,1  find  a  publisher  for  his  book,  and  then 
see  whether  there  was  any  other  outlook  for  him.  II  none 
offered,  there  was  still  a  resource  behind,  suggested  perhaps 
by  the  first  success  of  Irving  and  advised  by  Oharles  Buller. 

I  have  half  a  mind  (ho  wrote  to  John,  warning  him  at  t  in?  sumo 
time  to  be  secret  about  it)  to  start  when  I  come  there,  if  the 
ground  promise  well,  and  deliver  a  dozen  lectures  in  my  own  An 
nandale  accent  with  my  own  God-created  brain  and  heart,  to  such 
audience  as  will  gather  round  me,  on  some  section  or  aspect  of 
this  strange  life  in  this  strange  era,  of  which  my  soul,  like  Cliphaz 
the  Temanite’s,  is  getting  fuller  and  fuller.  Does  there  seem  to 
thee  any  propriety  in  a  man  that  has  organs  of  speech  and  oven 
some  semblance  of  understanding  and  sincerity  sitting  for  ever, 
mute  as  a  milestone,  while  quacks  of  every  colour  are  quacking  as 
with  lungs  of  brass?  True,  I  have  no  pulpit ;  but  as  I  once  said, 
cannot  any  man  make  him  a  pulpit  simply  by  inverting  the  near¬ 
est  tub?  And  what  are  your  Whigs,  and  Lord  Advocates,  and 
Lord  Chancellors,  and  the  whole  host  of  unspeakably  gabbling 
parliamenteers  and  pulpiteers  and  pamphleteers,  if  a  man  suspect 
that  there  is  fire  enough  in  his  belly  to  burn  up  the  entire  crea 
tion  of  such?  These  all  build  on  mechanism  ;  one  spark  of  dy¬ 
namism,  of  inspiration,  were  it  in  the  poorest  soul,  is  stronger 
than  they  all. 

As  for  the  Whig  Ministry  with  whom  Jeffrey  might  appear  to 
connect  me,  I  partly  see  two  things:  first,  that  they  will  have 
nothing  in  any  shape  to  do  with  me,  did  I  show  them  the  virtue 
of  a  Paul ;  nay,  the  more  virtue  the  Kss  chance,  for  virtue  is  the 
will  to  choose  the  good,  not  tool-usefulness,  to  forge  at  the  cvpe 
dient:  secondly,  that  they,  the  Whigs,  except  perhaps  Brougham 
and  his  implements,  will  not  endure.  The  latter,  indeed,  I  should 
wonder  little  to  see  one  day  a  second  Cromwell,  lie  is  the  cun- 
ningest  and  the  strongest  man  in  England  now,  as  I  construe  him, 
and  with  no  better  principle  than  a  Napoleon  has  a  worship  Mid 
self-devotion  to  power.  God  be  thanked,  that  I  had  nothing  to  do 
with  his  University  and  its  committees.  So  I  hat  Providence 
seems  saying  tome,  ‘Thou  wilt  never  find  pulpit,  were  it  beta 
rhetoric  chair,  provided  for  thee.  Invert  thy  tub,  and  speak  if 
thou  hast  aught  to  say.’ 

Keep  this  inviolably  secret,  and  know  meanwhile  llial  if  I  can 
raise  50/.  at  the  right  season,  to  London  I  will  certainly  come, 


Advice  to  IBs  Brother. 


117 


John  Carlyle  on  his  own*  account  needed  fresh  admoni¬ 
tion.  Patients  he  could  hear  of  none.  The  magazine  edi- 
tors  were  inclining  for  his  name’s  sake  to  listen  to  him. 
Carlyle’s  feeling  about  it  was  like  that  of  the  rich  man  in 
torment. 

To  Jolm  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock  :  March  27,  1831. 

I  am  clear  for  your  straining  every  sinew  simply  to  get  medical 
employment,  whether  as  assistant  surgeon  or  in  any  other  honest 
capacity.  "Without  any  doubt  as  the  world  now  stands  your  safety 
lies  there.  Neither  are  you  so  destitute  of  friends  and  influence 
that  on  any  given  reasonable  plan  a  considerable  force  of  help 
could  not  be  brought  to  bear.  There  are  several,  of  weight,  that 
would  on  more  than  one  ground  rejoice  to  do  their  best  for  you. 
Your  world  of  London  lies  too  dim  before  me  for  specification  in 
this  matter.  Towards  this,  however,  all  your  endeavours  ought 
doubtless  to  be  directed.  Think  and  scheme  and  inquire,  or 
rather  continue  to  do  so  :  once  foiled  is  nothing  like  final  defeat. 
So  long  as  life  is  in  a  man  there  is  strength  in  him.  Ein  anderes 
Mai  wollen  wir  unsere  Sache  besser  machen — ‘  the  next  time  we  will 
manage  our  affairs  better’ — this  was  Fritz’s  Wahlspruch;  and  in 
this  place  of  hope,  where  indeed  there  is  nothing  for  us  but  hope, 
every  brave  man  in  reverses  says  the  like. 

For  your  success  with  the  ‘  New  Monthly,*  or  even  with  Napier, 
I  care  little,  except  so  far  as  it  might  enable  you  to  continue 
longer  in  London  on  the  outlook.  In  other  respects  I  am  nearly 
sure  failure  would  even  be  for  your  good.  Periodical  writing  is, 
as  I  have  often  said,  simply  the  worst  of  all  existing  employments. 
No  mortal  that  had  another  noble  art,  the  noblest  with  but  one 
single  exception,  but  would  turn  from  it  with  abhorrence  and 
cleave  with  his  whole  heart  to  the  other.  I  am  of  opinion  that 
you  have  a  talent  in  you,  perhaps  far  deeper  than  you  yourself 
have  often  suspected;  but  also  that  it  will  never  come  to  growth 
in  that  way.  Incessant  scribbling  is  inevitable  death  to  thought. 
What  can  grow  in  the  soil  of  that  mind  which  must  all  be  riddled 
monthly  to  see  if  there  are  any  grains  in  it  that  will  sell  ?  A 
hack  that  contents  himself  with  gathering  any  offal  of  novelty  or 
the  like,  and  simply  spreads  this  out  on  a  stand  and  begs  the  pas¬ 
sengers  to  buy  it,  may  flourish  in  such  craft ;  an  honest  man, 
much  more  a  man  of  any  original  talent,  cannot.  1  houghts  fall 


118 


/ /if  e  of  Humid*  (la/rl/yle. 

on  hh,  ns  1  said,  likes  seed.  Thin  yon  will  find  to  be  truo.  It  is 
times  only  and  silence  that  <;an  ripen  thorn.  So  convinced  am  I  of 
tho  daugoroiJH,  proeariems,  and  on  tho  wholo  despicable  and  un¬ 
gainly  naturo  of  a  I i To  by  scribbling  in  any  shape,  that  I  am  ro- 
Holvod  to  investigate)  again  whether  oven  .1  am  for  over  (loomed 
te>  it. 

I  will  not  leave)  literature;  noitJmr  slmuld  you  leave  it.  Nay, 
had  I  but  twee  potatoCH  in  the)  weuvhl,  and  one  true)  idea,  I  should 
hold  it  my  duty  te>  part  with  one  potato  for  paper  and  ink,  and 
live)  u pem  the  other  till  I  got  it  written.  T<>  such  extremities  may 
a  mero  man  e>f  letters  bo  brought  in  Britain  at  present;  but  no 
wine  you,  whe)  have  another  footing,  and  can  Jive  in  a  h toady  genial 
climate  till  experience  have)  evokeei  into  purity  what  in  in  you — 
than  te>  he)  spoken  with  authority  in  the  earn  of  all. 

Hue;h  h)HHe>n,  my  elear  brotlmr,  had  you  to  learn  in  London  be¬ 
fore)  ovem  the  right  effort  could  begin.  It  in  a  real  satisfaction 
that,  however  bitterly  you  are  learning  <>r  have  learnt  it,  hence¬ 
forth  y e » n v  face)  and  force  ure  turned  in  the  true  direction.  If  not 
te >  flay,  then  te>  morrow  yem  must  and  will  advance  prosperously 
and  triumph.  IVu’Ward,  i\\rn}  fmlQn  Math's  and fro/oin  /Sinn's,  and 
God  be)  with  you.  Ifear  nothing  ;  die  Zr.it  1>rhu/t  Uosr.n. 

Of  public  matters  I  could  write  much  ;  but,  greatly  an  the 
spectacle  of  those  tiinoH  a  wholo  world  (putting  its  e>hl  anchorage 
and  venturing  into  now  unirmd  sens  with  little  Hcionce  of  nailing 
aboard  solicits  one’s  attontiem,  they  elo  not  interest  either  e>f  oh 
chiefly.  I  have  signed  ne>  petition  ;  nay,  I  know  not  whether,  had 
I  the  power  by  speaking  a  wore!  to  delay  that  consummation  or 
hasten  it,  I  wouhl  speak  the  word,  it  is  a  thing  I  have)  oitlior 
hmgne!  lor  passionate)ly  or  with  eonfhlonee carelossly  predicted  any 
time)  those)  fifteen  years.  II  I  with  any  zeal  approve  of  it  ne>w,  it  in 
nim ply  on  tho  gremnd  of  thin  ineontrovertihle  aphorism  which  the 
utate)  of  all  the)  inej iintrieuiM  m  these)  epiartors  too  lamentably  eon- 
firms  - 

Hungry  (pits  and  empty  pmno 
May  he)  ImiI, I, or,  can’t  ho  worms. 

I  here  is  no  logic  yet  discovered  that  emu  gel/  behind  Huh.  Yes, 
in  God  s  name),  Ir.t  iim  try  it  the  other  way.  .lane  ‘salutes  yon  with 
greetings  and  sisterly  blessings.’1  Adieu,  dear  .lack, yYryW.v. 

Mvor  your  brother, 

T.  (Unioiiiu. 

1  riiraao  of  Kid  ward  Irviiif/’n. 


Life  at  CraigenjmttocL . 


119 


In  tliis  period  of  ‘potatoes  and  point’  and  ‘fartliing 
rushlights  '  for  illumination  after  dark,  the  reader  may  he 
anxious  to  know  how  Mrs.  Carlyle  was  getting  on.  Little 
can  he  said  about  this,  for  Carlyle  tells  next  to  nothing  of 
her  saye  in  sad  letters  to  Jeffrey,  the  nature  of  which,  for 
they  have  not  been  preserved,  can  only  be  conjectured 
from  Jeffrey’s  replies  to  them.  AY e  are  left  pretty  much 
to  guess  her  condition ;  and  of  guesses,  the  fewer  that  are 
ventured  the  better.  Here,  however,  is  one  letter  of  her 
own  inquiring  after  a  servant  for  her  mother— one  of  the 
collection  which  Carlyle  has  himself  made,  and  has  at- 
tached  notes  and  preface  to  it. 

To  Miss  Jean  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

[Betty  Smail,  mother  of  the  two  servant  girls  treated  of 
here,  was  a  dependant  and  cottager  at  Scotsbrig,  come  of 
very  honest  farmer  people,  though  now  reduced.  She 
was  herself  a  hardy,  striving,  noteworthy,  lithe  body,  stood 
a  great  deal  of  sorrow  and  world-contradiction  well,  and 
died,  still  at  Scotsbrig,  very  deaf,  and  latterly  gone  quite 
blind,  age  about  ninety,  only  last  year  (186S),  or  the  year 
before.  Her  girl  Jean  did  not  go,  I  think.  ?  Both  these 

ZD  O  7 

poor  girls  died  in  their  mother’s  lifetime :  one,  probably 
Jean,  soon  after  this  of  sudden  fever ;  the  other  still  more 
tragically  of  some  neuralgic  accident — suicide,  thought  not 
to  be  voluntary,  hardly  two  weeks  before  my  own  great 
loss.  Ah  me  ! — T.  C.] 

Craigenputtoek  :  Spring,  ISol. 

My  dearest  Jean, — I  was  meaning  to  write  you  a  long  letter  by 
Alick,  but  I  have  been  in  bed  all  day  with  a  headache,  and  am 
risen  so  confused  and  dull  that  for  vour  sake  as  well  as  my  own  I 
shall  keep  my  speculations — news  I  have  none — till  another  op¬ 
portunity,  merely  despatching  in  a  few  words  a  small  piece  of 
business  I  have  to  trouble  you  with,  which  will  not  wait. 

Mv  mother  is  wanting  a  woman  at  next  term  to  take  charge  of 
her  few  cattle,  work  out,  and  assist  at  the  washings.  Not  wishing 


120 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


to  hire  one  out  of  Thornhill,  she  has  requested  me  to  look  about 
for  her,  and  would  have  liked  Betty  Smail,  whom  I  formerly  rec¬ 
ommended,  provided  she  had  been  leaving  the  Andersons.  But 
I  was  happy  to  find  (having  been  the  means  of  placing  there)  that 
she  is  not  leaving  them,  and  continues  to  give  great  satisfaction  by 
her  honest,  careful,  obliging  character.  Miss  Anderson  happened 
to  mention  to  Betty  that  I  had  been  inquiring  about  her  for  my 
mother,  when  she  suggested  that  her  sister  Jean,  who  is  out  of  a 
place,  might  possibly  answer.  You  know  this  Jean.  Is  she  still 
disengaged  ?  would  she  be  willing  to  come  ?  and  do  you  think  she 
would  be  fit  for  the  place  ? 

That  you  may  be  better  able  to  form  a  judgment  in  the  matter, 
I  must  tell  you  my  mother  has  already  one  Jean,,  who  is  a  favourite 
of  some  standing  ;  and  you  knowT  there  is  not  houseroom  at  Temp- 
land  for  two  favourites  at  once. 

The  present  Jean  maintains  her  ground  partly  by  good  service, 
partly  by  wheedling.  To  get  the  good-will  of  her  mistress,  and  so 
have  a  comfortable  life,  the  new  comer,  besides  the  usual  requi¬ 
sites  in  a  byre-woman,  should  possess  the  art  of  wheedling  in  a 
still  higher  degree,1  or  she  should  be  an  obtuse,  imperturbable 
character  that  would  take  ‘  the  good  the  gods  provided,’  and  for 
the  rest  ‘  jouk  until  the  jaw  gaed  by,’  would  go  on  honestly  milk¬ 
ing  her  cows  and  ‘  clatting  ’  her  byre  ‘  in  maiden  meditation  fancy 
free,’  till  under  a  change  of  ministry,  which  always  comes  at  last, 
she  might  find  herself  suddenly  promoted  in  her  turn. 

Now  all  this  is  very  ill-natured,  and  you  will  mind  it  only  so  far 
as  you  see  sense  in  it.  It  means  simply  that  if  Jean  Smail  be  a 
very  sensitive  or  quarrelsome  character,  and  at  the  same  time 
without  i tact,  she  would  not  be  likely  to  prosper.  Send  me  word 
by  Alick  what  you  think.  I  need  hardly  add  that  a  servant  who 
pleases  could  not  possibly  find  a  better  place. 

Tell  your  mother,  with  my  love,  that  the  hen  she  has  sent  to  be 
eaten  has  laid  the  first  egg  of  our  whole  stock. 

God  bless  you.  More  next  time,  as  the  Doctor  says. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

Meanwhile  the  affairs  of  the  poor  Doctor  were  com¬ 
ing  to  extremity.  Excellent  advice  might  be  given  from 
Craigenputtock ;  hut  advice  now  was  all  that  could  be  aff 

1  ‘  Truish — emphatic  for  business’  sake. — T.  C.’ 


Position  of  John  Carlyle . 


•  121 


forded.  Even  his  magazine  articles,  for  which  he  had 
been  rebuked  for  writing,  could  not  be  sold  after  all.  It 
was  time  clearly  for  a  deus  ex  maehind  to  appeal*  and 
help  him.  Happily  there  was  a  deus  in  London  able  and 
willing  to  do  it  in  the  shape  of  Jeffrey.  Though  he  had 
failed  in  inducing  Carlyle  to  accept  pecuniary  help  from 
him,  he  could  not  be  prevented  from  assisting  his  brother, 
and  giving  him  or  lending  him  some  subvention  till  some¬ 
thing  better  could  be  arranged.  Here,  too,  Carlyle’s  pride 
took  alarm.  It  was  pain  and  humiliation  to  him  that  any 
member  of  his  family  should  subsist  on  the  bounty  of  a 
stranger.  He  had  a  just  horror  of  debt.  The  unlucky 
John  himself  fell  in  for  bitter  observations  upon  his  indo¬ 
lence.  John,  he  said,  should  come  down  to  Scotland  and 
live  with  him.  There  was  shelter  for  him  and  food 
enough,  such  as  it  was.  He  did  not  choose  that  a  brother 
of  his  should  be  degraded  by  accepting  obligations.  But 
this  time  Jeffrey  refused  to  listen.  It  might  be  very  wrong, 
he  admitted,  for  a  man  to  sit  waiting  by  the  pool  till  an  an¬ 
gel  stirred  the  water,  but  it  was  not  necessarily  right  there¬ 
fore  that  because  he  could  not  immediately  find  employ¬ 
ment  in  his  profession,  he  should  renounce  his  chances  and 
sit  down  to  eat  potatoes  and  read  German  at  Craigenput- 
tock.  He  had  no  disposition  to  throw  away  money  with¬ 
out  a  prospect  of  doing  good  with  it,  but  he  knew  no  bet¬ 
ter  use  to  which  it  could  be  put  than  in  floating  an  indus¬ 
trious  man  over  the  shoals  into  a  fair  way  of  doing  good 
for  himself.  Even  towards  Carlyle,  angry  as  he  had  been, 
his  genuine  kindness  obliged  him  to  relent.  If  only  he 
would  not  be  so  impracticable  and  so  arrogant !  If  only 
he  could  be  persuaded  that  he  was  not  an  inspired  being, 
and  destined  to  be  the  founder  of  a  new  religion  !  But  a 
solitary dife  and  a  bad  stomach  had  so  spoilt  him,  all  but 
the  heart,  that  he  despaired  of  being  able  to  mend  him. 

Jeffrey  was  so  evidently  sincere  that  even  Carlyle  could 


122 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

object  no  longer  on  bis  brother’s  account.  ‘My  pride/  he 
said,  6  were  true  pride — savage,  satanic,  and  utterly  dam¬ 
nable — if  it  offered  any  opposition  to  such  a  project  when 
my  own  brother  and  his  future  happiness  was  concerned.’ 
Jeffrey  did  not  mean  to  confine  himself  to  immediate  as¬ 
sistance  with  his  purse.  He  was  determined  to  find,  if 
possible,  some  active  work  for  John.  Nothing  could  be 
done  immediately,  for  he  was  obliged  to  leave  London  on 
election  business.  Help  in  money-  at  least  was  to  be  given 
as  soon  as  he  returned ;  Carlyle  using  the  interval  for  an¬ 
other  admonition. 

Consider  your  situation  (he  wrote  to  his  brother  on  the  8tli  of 
May)  with  unprejudiced,  fearless  mind,  listening  no  moment  to 
the  syren  melodies  of  hope,  which  are  only  melodies  of  sloth,  but 
taking  cold  prudence  and  calculation  with  you  at  every  step. 
Nimm  Dick  zusammen.  Gather  yourself  up.  Feel  your  feet  upon 
the  rock  before  you  rest,  not  upon  the  quicksand,  where  resting 
will  but  engulph  you  deeper.  In  your  calculations,  too,  I  would 
have  you  throw  out  literature  altogether.  Indeed,  I  rather  be¬ 
lieve  it  were  for  your  good  if  you  quite  burnt  your  magazine  pen 
and  devoted  yourself  exclusively  and  wholly  to  medicine,  and 
nothing  but  medicine.  Magazine  work  is  below  street-sweeping 
as  a  trade.  Even  I,  who  have  no  other,  am  determined  to  try  by 
all  methods  whether  it  is  not  possible  to  abandon  it. 

At  Craigenputtock  the  most  desperate  pinch  was  not 
y7et  over.  One  slip  of  the  Literary  History  came  out  in 
the  April  number  of  the  ‘  Edinburgh  ’  in  the  form  of  a 
review  of  Taylor’ s  6  Historic  Survey  of  German  Poetry/  1 
but  payment  for  it  was  delayed  or  forgotten.  Meanwhile 
the  farm-horses  had  been  sold.  Old  Larry,  doing  double 
duty  on  the  road  and  in  the  cart,  had  laid  himself  down 
and  died — died  from  overwork.  So  clever  was  Larry,  so 
humorous,  that  it  was  as  if  the  last  human  friend  had 
been  taken  away.  The  pony  had  been  parted  with  also, 
though  it  was  recovered  afterwards ;  and  before  payment 

1  Miscellanies ,  vol.  iii. 


Despondency. 


123 


came  from  Napier  for  the  article  they  were  in  real  ex¬ 
tremity.  Alick  by  his  four  years  of  occupation  was  out 
of  pocket  300Z.  These  were  the  saddest  days  which  Car¬ 
lyle  had  ever  known. 

The  summer  came,  and  the  Dunscore  moors  grew  beau¬ 
tiful  in  the  dry  warm  season.  ‘  So  pure  was  the  air,  the 
foliage,  the  herbage,  and  everything  round  him,’  that  he 
said,  if  Arcadianly  given,  he  ‘  might  fancy  the  yellow 
buttercups  were  asphodel,  and  the  whole  scene  a  portion 
of  Hades — some  outskirt  of  the  Elysian  Fields,  the  very 
perfection  of  solitude.’  Between  the  softness  of  the  scene 
and  the  apparent  hopelessness  of  his  prospects,  Carlyle’s 
own  heart  seems  for  a  moment  to  have  failed.  He  wrote 
to  Jeffrey  in  extreme  depression,  as  if  he  felt  he  had  lost 
the  game,  and  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  turn 
cynic  and  live  and  die  in  silence.  The  letter  I  have  not 
seen,  and  I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  been  preserved, 
but  Jeffrey’s  answer  shows  what  the  tone  of  it  must  have 
been.  ‘The  cynic  tub,’  ‘the  primitive  lot  of  man,’  Jeffrey 
frankly  called  an  unseemly  and  unworthy  romance.  If 
Carlyle  did  not  care  for  himself,  he  ought  to  think  of  his 
young  and  delicate  wife,  whose  great  heart  and  willing 
martyrdom  would  make  the  sacrifice  more  agonising  in 
the  end.  It  was  not  necessary.  He  should  have  aid — - 
effective  aid ;  and  if  he  pleased  he  might  repay  it  some 
day  ten  times  over.  Something  should  be  found  for  him 
to  do  neither  unglorious  nor  unprofitable.  He  was  fit  for 
many  things,  and  there  were  more  tasks  in  the  world  fit 
for  him  than  he  was  willing  to  believe.  He  complimented 
him  on  his  last  article  in  the  ‘  Edinburgh.’  Empson  had 
praised  it  warmly.  Macaiday  and  several  others,  who  had 
laughed  at  his  ‘  Signs  of  the  Times,’  had  been  struck  with 
its  force  and  originality.  If  he  would  but  give  himself 
fair  play,  if  he  could  but  believe  that  men  might  differ 
from  him  without  being  in  damnable  error,  he  would 


124 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


make  his  way  to  tlie  front  without  difficulty.  If  Jeffrey 
had  been  the  most  tender  of  brothers  he  could  not  have 
written  more  kindly.  Carlyle  if  one  of  the  proudest  was 
also  one  of  the  humblest  of  mortals.  He  replied,  ‘that  he 
was  ready  to  work  at  any  honest  thing  whatsoever ;  ’  £  that 
he  did  not  see  that  literature  could  support  an  honest  man 
otherwise  than  a  la  Diogenes.’  ‘In  this  fashion  he  meant 
to  experiment  if  nothing  else  could  be  found,  which  how¬ 
ever  through  all  channels  of  investigation  he  was  minded 
to  try  for.’ 

It  is  not  easy  to  see  precisely  what  kind  of  employment 
Jeffrey  had  really  in  view  for  Carlyle.  At  one  time  no 
doubt  he  had  thought  of  recommending  him  strongly  to 
the  Government.  At  another  he  had  confessedly  thought 
of  him  as  his  own  successor  on  the  £  Edinburgh  Review.’ 
But  he  had  been  frightened  at  Carlyle’s  Radicalism.  He 
had  been  offended  at  his  arrogance.  Perhaps  he  thought 
that  it  indicated  fundamental  unsoundness  of  mind.  He 
little  conjectured  that  the  person  for  whom  he  was  con¬ 
cerning  himself  was  really  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
in  Europe,  destined  to  make  a  deeper  impression  upon  his 
contemporaries  than  any  thinker  then  alive.  This  was  not 
to  be  expected ;  but  it  must  be  supposed  that  he  was  wish¬ 
ing  rather  to  try  the  sincerity  of  Carlyle’s  professions  than 
that  he  was  really  serious  in  what  he  now  suggested.  He 
gave  a  list  of  possible  situations  :  a  clerkship  at  the  Excise 
or  the  Board  of  Longitude  or  the  Record  Office,  or  a 
librarianship  at  the  British  Museum,  or  some  secretaryship 
in  a  merchant’s  house  of  business.  He  asked  him  which 
of  these  he  would  detest  the  least,  that  he  might  know  be¬ 
fore  he  applied  for  it. 

Poor  Carlyle  !  It  was  a  bitter  draught  which  was  being 
commended  to  his  lips.  But  he  was  very  meek ;  he  an¬ 
swered  that  he  would  gratefully  accept  any  one  of  them  : 
but  even  such  posts  as  these  he  thought  in  his  despondency 


Despondency . 


125 


to  be  beyond  liis  reach.  He  was  like  the  pilgrim  in  the 
valley  of  humiliation.  ‘I  do  not  expect,5  he  told  his 
mother,  ‘  that  he  will  be  able  to  accomplish  anything  for 
me.  I  must  even  get  through  life  without  a  trade ,  always 
in  poverty,  as  far  better  men  have  done.  Our  want  is  the 
want  of  faith.  Jesus  of  Hazareth  was  not  poor,  though 
he  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head.  Socrates  was  rich 
enough.  I  have  a  deep,  irrevocable,  all-comprehending 
Enmlpkus  curse  to  read  upon  Gigmanity :  that  is  the  Baal 
worship  of  our  time.’ 

Though  brought  down  so  low,  he  could  not  entirely  love 
the  hand  which  had  made  him  feel  where  he  stood  in  the 
world’s  estimation.  His  unwillingness  that  John  should 
accept  money  from  Jeffrey  was  not  removed. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock  :  July  7,  1831. 

Help  towards  work  I  would  solicit  from  any  reasonable  man. 
Mere  pecuniary  help  for  its  own  sake  is  a  thing  one  should  always 
be  cautious  of  accepting.  Few  are  worthy  to  give  it,  still  fewer 
capable  of  worthily  receiving  it.  Such  is  the  way  of  the  time  we 
live  in.  Meanwhile,  relax  not  your  own  efforts  for  a  moment. 
Think,  project,  investigate.  You  are  like  a  soul  struggling  to¬ 
wards  birth ;  the  skilfullest  accoucheur  (pardon  the  horrible  fig¬ 
ure)  can  but  help  the  process.  Here,  too,  the  Csesarean  operation, 
as  I  have  seen,  is  oftenest  fatal  to  the  foetus.  In  short,  Jack,  there 
lie  the  rudiments  of  a  most  sufficient  man  and  doctor  in  thee  :  but 
wise  will  must  first  body  them  forth.  Oh,  I  know  the  thrice -cursed 
state  you  are  in — hopeless  grim  death-defying  thoughts  ;  a  world 
shut  against  you  by  inexpugnable  walls.  Hough  it  out ;  toil  it 
out ;  other  way  of  making  a  man  have  I  never  seen.  One  day  you 
will  see  it  all  to  have  been  needed,  and  your  highest,  properly  your 
only  blessing. 

I  must  not  take  all  your  encomiums  about  my  scriptorial  genius. 
Nevertheless,  I  am  coming  up  to  look  about  me,  and  if  possible 
even  to  establish  myself  in  London.  This  place  is  as  good  as 
done ;  not  even  the  last  advantage,  that  of  living  in  any  pecuniary 
sufficiency,  for  I  never  was  as  poor.  Naso,1  the  blockhead,  has 

1  Napier,  of  the  Edinburgh  lie  view. 


126 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

neither  paid  me  nor  written  to  me.  But  we  are  in  no  strait.  I 
shall  even  raise  the  wind  for  a  London  voyage  without  much  diffi¬ 
culty.  I  can  write  to  Naso,  if  he  will  not  to  me.  I  have  some 
thoughts  of  cutting  him  and  his  calcined  caput  mortuum — dead 
men’s  ashes  of  Whiggism — at  any  rate.  But  fair  and  soft.  I  now 
see  through  Teufel,  write  at  him  literally  night  and  day,  yet  can¬ 
not  be  done  within — say  fifteen  days.  Then  I  should  like  to  have 
a  week’s  rest,  for  I  am  somewhat  in  the  inflammatory  vein.  As  to 
the  Teufel  itself,  whereof  122  solid  pages  lie  written  off,  and  some 
40  above  half  ready  are  to  follow,  I  cannot  pretend  to  prophecy. 
My  humour  is  of  the  stoical  sort  as  concerns  it.  Sometimes .  I 
think  it  goodisli,  at  other  times  bad ;  at  most  times  the  best  I  can 
make  it  here.  A  strange  book  all  men  will  admit  it  to  be.  Par¬ 
tially  intended  to  be  a  true  book  I  know  it  to  be.  It  shall  be 
printed  if  there  is  a  possibility.  You  anticipate  me  in  the  sugges¬ 
tion  of  lodgings.  There  must  I  live,  and  nowhere  as  a  guest. 
Dreitdgiger  Gast  wird  eine  Last.  A  guest  after  three  days  is  a  bur¬ 
den.  Have  you  no  little  bedroom  even  where  you  are  ;  and  one 
little  parlour  would  serve  us  both.  I  care  about  nothing  but  a 
bed  where  I  can  sleep.  That  is  to  say,  where  are  no  bugs  and  no 
noises  about  midnight ;  for  I  am  pretty  invincible  when  once 
fairly  sealed.  The  horrors  of  nerves  are  somewhat  laid  in  me,  I 
think  ;  yet  the  memory  of  them  is  frightfully  vivid.  Por  the  rest, 
my  visit  to  London  is  antigigmanic  from  heart  to  skin.  The  ven¬ 
erable  old  man  (Goethe)  sends  me  ten  days  ago  the  noblest  letter 
I  ever  read.1  Scarcely  could  I  read  it  without  tears.  Let  me  die 
the  death  of  the  righteous ;  let  my  last  end  be  like  his.  Goethe 
is  well  and  serene.  Another  box  on  the  way  hither.  We  all 
salute  you. 

T.  C. 

The  picture  of  Carlyle’s  condition — poor,  almost  without 
hope,  the  companions  which  had  made  the  charm  of  his 
solitude — his  brother  Alick,  his  horse  Larry — all  gone  or 
going,  the  place  itself  disenchanted — has  now  a  peculiar 
interest,  for  it  was  under  these  conditions  that  4  Sartor 
Besartus  ’  was  composed.  A  wild  sorrow  sounds  through 
its  sentences  like  the  wind  over  the  strings  of  an  seolian 
harp.  Pride,  too,  at  intervals  fiercely  defiant,  yet  yielding 

1  Not  to  be  found. 


127 


John  Carlyle. 

to  the  inevitable,  as  if  the  stem  lesson  had  done  its  work. 
Carlyle’s  pride  needed  breaking.  His  reluctance  to  allow 
his  brother  to  accept  help  from  Jeffrey  had  only  plunged 
him  into  worse  perplexities.  John  had  borrowed  money, 
hoping  that  his  articles  would  enable  him  to  repay  it.  The 
articles  had  not  been  accepted,  and  the  hope  had  proved  a 
quicksand.  Other  friends  were  willing  to  lend  what  was 
required,  but  he  would  take  nothing  more ;  and  the  only 
resource  left  was  to  draw  again  upon  Carlyle’s  almost  ex¬ 
hausted  funds. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock  :  July  12,  1831. 

I  wrote  last  Thursday  under  cover  to  the  Lord  Advocate,  which 
letter  you  have  before  this  received.  However,  not  knowing  the 
right  address,  I  was  obliged  to  address  the  M.P.  at  ‘  London/  so 
that  some  delay  may  have  occurred.  Alick  and  1 1  were  down  at 
the  kirk  on  Sunday.  I  went  for  the  first  time  these  many  months, 
on  account  of  the  Irish  collection  :  and  there  your  letter  was  lying 
which  demands  a  quite  instantaneous  reply.  I  regretted  greatly 
that  no  device  of  mine  could  take  effect  sooner  than  to-night ;  but 
as  if  it  had  been  some  relief,  I  made  ready  another  letter  for  your 
behoof  (of  which  anon)  that  very  night,  and  have  had  it  lying  here 
sealed  ever  since.  It  was  a  letter  to  Bowring,  requesting  him  to 
pay  the  Nibelungen  article 2  forthwith  into  your  hands.  I  did 
this  as  courteously  as  possible,  and  imagine  he  will  not  fail. 
However,  a  day  or  two  may  elapse  ;  and  in  the  meantime  you  have 
nothing.  Had  I  been  at  Dumfries  I  would  have  got  a  Bank  of 
England  note ;  but  there  is  none  such  here :  we  have  not  even  a 
better  than  this  of  one  pound,  though  I  tried  to  borrow  a  five  in 
vain.  So  you  must  receive  it  as  our  poor  non  plus  ultra.  Take  it 
to  William  Hamilton  in  Cheapside.  Say  your  brother  was  sending 
you  money,  and  requested  that  he  would  give  you  a  sovereign  for 
this.  If  Bowring  do  not  send  before  it  is  done,  I  think  you  may 
call  on  him.  I  suppose  there  will  be  three  sheets,  and  tlieir  pay 
is  only  ten  guineas.  Take  off  it  what  you  have  need  of  till  I  come. 

1  Alick  Carlyle,  unable  to  find  another  farm  or  occupation,  had  come  back 
for  a  time,  and  was  living  in  a  small  room  in  the  yard  at  Craigenputtock. 

2  I.e.,  the  money  due  for  it. 


128 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

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Write  also  a  word  on  the  papers  to  say  how  it  is,1  and  how  yon  are. 
I  have  had  yon  little  out  of  my  head  since  Sunday  last. 

Shocking  as  yonr  situation  is,  however,  we  all  here  agree  that  it 
is  more  hopeful  than  we  have  ever  yet  had  clear  argument  to  think 
it.  Thank  God  you  have  done  no  wrong.  Your  conscience  is  free, 
and  you  yourself  are  there.  We  all  reckon  that  your  conduct  in 
that  matter  of  Jeffrey’s  20£.  was  entitled  to  be  called  heroic .  Sooner 
or  later,  my  dear  brother,  it  must  have  come  to  this,  namely,  that 
your  own  miscellaneous  industry  could  not  support  you  in  Lon¬ 
don,  and  that  you  ceased  to  borrow,  better,  we  say,  now  than  never. 
Bear  up ;  front  it  bravely.  There  are  friendly  eyes  upon  you,  and 
hearts  praying  for  you.  Were  we  once  together  it  will  be  per¬ 
emptorily  necessary  to  consider  how  the  land  lies  and  what  is  to 
be  done.  In  all  situations  (out  of  Tophet)  there  is  a  duty,  and  our 
highest  blessedness  lies  in  doing  it.  I  know  not  whether  Jeffrey 
may  be  able  to  do  anything  for  you.  He  speaks  to  me  rather  more 
hopefully  than  he  seems  to  have  done  to  you. 

I  shall  study  to  be  with  you  about  the  beginning  of  August.  I 
have  written  as  you  suggested  to  Napier  for  a  note  to  Longman, 
also  for  payment  of  what  he  owes  me.  I  am  struggling  forward 
with  Dreck,  sick  enough,  but  not  in  bad  heart.  I  think  the  world 
will  no  wise  be  enraptured  with  this  medicinal  DeviVs-dung  ;  that 
the  critical  republic  will  cackle  vituperatively,  or  perhaps  main¬ 
tain  total  silence — d  la  bonne  heure  !  It  was  the  best  I  had  in  me. 
What  God  has  given  me,  that  the  Devil  shall  not  take  away.  Be 
of  good  cheer,  my  brother.  Behave  wisely,  and  continue  to  trust 
in  God.  No  doubt  He  sent  you  hither  to  work  out  His  will.  It 
is  man’s  mission  and  blessedness  could  he  but  rightly  walk  in  it. 
Write  to  me.  Trust  in  me. 

Ever  your  brother, 

T.  Carlyle. 

Once  more  on  the  17th  of  the  same  month — • 

I  am  labouring  at  Teufel  with  considerable  impetuosity,  and 
calculate  that,  unless  accidents  intervene,  I  may’be  actually  ready 
to  get  under  way  at  the  end  of  the  month.  But  there  will  not  be 
a  minute  to  lose.  I  sometimes  think  the  book  will  prove  a  kind 
of  medicinal  assafcetida  for  the  pudding  stomach  of  England,  and 
produce  new  secretions  there.  Jacta  est  alea !  I  will  speak  out 

1  The  Carlyles  communicated  with  one  another  by  cipher  on  newspapers,  to 
save  postage. 


I 


Completion  of  ‘/Sartor.’ 


129 


what  is  in  me,  though  far  harder  chances  threatened.  I  have  no 
other  trade,  no  other  strength  or  portion  in  this  earth.  Be  it  so. 
Hourly  you  come  into  my  head,  sitting  in  your  lone  cabin  in  that 
human  chaos  with  melir  als  ein  Schilling  and  pread  and  water  for 
your  dinner ;  and  I  cannot  say  but  I  respect  you  more  and  love 
you  more  than  ever  I  did.  Courage  !  Courage  !  Tapferkeit,  ‘  de¬ 
liberate  valour  ’  is  God’s  highest  gift,  and  comes  not  without  trial 
to  any.  Times  will  mend  ;  or,  if  times  never  mend,  then  in  the 
Devil’s  name  let  them  stay  as  they  are,  or  grow  worse,  and  we  will 
mend.  I  know  but  one  true  wretchedness — the  want  of  work 
(want  of  wages  is  comparatively  trifling),  which  want,  however,  in 
such  a  world  as  this  planet  of  ours  cannot  be  permanent  unless  we 
continue  blind  therein.  I  must  to  my  Dreck,  for  the  hours  go. 
Gott  mit  Dir  ! 

It  was  a  sad,  stern  time  to  these  struggling  brothers ; 
and  it  is  with  a  feeling  like  what  the  Scots  mean  by  wae 
that  one  reads  the  letters  that  Jeffrey  was  writing  during 
the  worst  of  it  to  Mrs.  Carlyle.  He  had  done  what  he  was 
allowed  to  do.  Perhaps  he  thought  they  understood  their 
own  matters  best ;  and  it  was  not  easy  to  thrust  his  ser¬ 
vices  on  so  proud  a  person  as  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  husband,  when 
they  were  treated  so  cavalierly ;  but  lie  did  not  choose  to 
let  the  correspondence  fall,  and  to  her  he  continued  to 
write  lightly  and  brilliantly  on  London  gaieties  and  his 
own  exploits  in  the  House  of  Commons.  The  tone  of 
these  letters  must  have  been  out  of  harmony  with  the 
heavy  hearts  at  Craigenputtock,  but  he  was  still  acting  as 
a  real  friend  and  remained  on  the  watch  for  opportunities 
to  be  of  use,  if  not  to  Carlyle  himself,  yet  at  least  to  his 
brother. 

So  July  ran  out  and  4  Sartor’  was  finished,  and  Carlyle 
prepared  to  start,  with  the  MS.  and  the  yet  unpublished 
sections  of  the  Literary  LListory  in  his  portmanteau,  to  find 
a  publisher  for  one  or  both  of  them  ;  to  find  also,  if  possi¬ 
ble,  some  humble  employment  to  which  his  past  work 
might  have  recommended  him  ;  to  launch  himself,  at  any 
Vol.  II. — 9 


130 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

rate,  into  the  great  world,  and  light  on  something  among 
its  floating  possibilities  to  save  him  from  drowning,  which 
of  late  had  seemed  likely  to  be  his  fate.  With  Craigen- 
puttock  as  a  home  he  believed  that  he  had  finally  done. 
The  farm  which  was  to  have  helped  him  to  subsist  had 
proved  a  failure,  and  had  passed  to  strangers.  Living  re¬ 
tired  in  those  remote  moorlands,  he  had  experienced  too 
painfully  that  from  articles  in  reviews  he  could  count  on 
no  regular  revenue,  while  the  labour  lost  in  the  writing 
led  to  nothing.  Work  of  such  a  kind,  if  it  was  to  be  prof¬ 
itable,  must  become  an  intellectual  prostitution;  and  to  es¬ 
cape  from  this  was  the  chief  object  of  his  London  journey. 
1 1  e  had  so  far  swallowed  his  pride  as  to  accept  after  all  a 
loan  of  50 1.  from  Jeffrey  for  his  expenses.  The  sums  due 
to  him  would  provide  food  and  lodging  during  his  stay. 
Such  hopes  as  he  still  may  have  entertained  of  the  realisa¬ 
tion  of  his  old  dream  of  making  a  mark  in  the  world  lay 
in  the  MS.  of  ‘Sartor.’  ‘It  is  a  work  of  genius,  dear,’ 
Mrs.  (  Jarlyle  said  to  him  as  she  finished  the  last  page — 
she  whose  judgment  was  unerring,  who  flattered  no  one, 
and  least  of  all  her  husband.  A  work  of  genius  !  Yes  ; 
but  of  genius  so  original  that  a  conventional  world,  meas¬ 
uring  by  established  rules,  could  not  fail  to  regard  it  as  a 
monster.  Originality,  from  the  necessity  of  its  nature, 
offends  at  its  first  appearance.  Certain  ways  of  acting, 
thinking,  and  speaking  are  in  possession  of  the  field  and 
claim  to  he  the  only  legitimate  ways.  A  man  of  genius 
strikes  into  a  road  of  his  own,  and  the  first  estimate  of 
such  a  man  has  been,  is,  and  always  will  be,  unfavourable. 
Carlyle  knew  that  lie  had  done  his  best,  and  he  knew  the 
worth  of  it.  He  had  yet  to  learn  how  hard  a  battle  still 
lay  ahead  of  him  before  that  worth  could  be  recognised  by 
others.  Jeffrey  compared  him  to  Parson  Adams  going  to 
seek  his  fortune  with  his  manuscript  in  his  pocket.  Charles 
Puller,  more  hopeful,  foretold  gold  and  glory.  Jeffrey,  at 


Visit  to  London. 


131 


any  rate,  liad  made  it  possible  for  him  to  go ;  and,  let  it 
he  added,  John  Carlyle,  notwithstanding  his  struggles  to 
avoid  obligations,  had  been  forced  to  accept  pecuniary  help 
from  the  same  kind  hand. 

Night  before  going  (lie  wrote  in  1866),  how  I  still  remember  it ! 
I  was  lying  on  my  back  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing  room.  She 
sitting  by  the  table  late  at  night,  packing  all  done,  I  suppose. 
Her  words  had  a  guise  of  sport,  but  were  profoundly  plaintive  in 
meaning.  ‘About  to  part;  and  who  knows  for  how  long,  and 
what  may  have  come  in  the  interim.’  This  was  her  thought,  and 
she  was  evidently  much  out  of  spirits.  ‘  Courage,  dear — only  for 
a  month,’  I  would  say  to  her  in  some  form  or  other.  I  went  next 
morning  early,  Alick  driving ;  embarked  at  Glencaple  Quay. 
Voyage  as  far  as  Liverpool  still  vivid  to  me.  The  rest,  till  arrival 
in  London,  gone — mostly  extinct. 


CH  APTER  VIII. 


A.J).  1831.  JET.  36. 

Rrtractx  from  Carb/ldn  Note  Book ,  begun  in  London  1831. 

A ug nut  I///,.  Loft  Craigenputtock  and  my  kind  little  wife, 
Alick  driving  me,  at  two  o’clock  in  the  morning.  Shipped  at 
GJeueupel;  hazy  day;  saw  Lsbie  in  the  steerage ;  talked  mysticism 
with  him  during  six  weary  hours  we  had  to  stay  at  Whitehaven. 
Itcim  bark  ment  there  amidst  bellowing  and  tumult  and  fiddling 
unutterable,  all  like  a  spectral  vision.  ‘She  is  not  there.’  St. 
I5ecs  Head.  Man  wit.h  the  nose.  Sleep  in  the  steamboat  cabin  : 
confusion  worse  confounded.  Morning  views  of  Cheshire — the 
Kook,  Liverpool,  and  steamboats. 

Au.gu.Hl  ht/g  0.30  in  the 'morning. — Land  at  Liverpool;  all  abed 
at  Maryland  Street.1  Hoy  Alick v  accompanies  me  over  Liverpool. 
Exchange,  dome  :  dim  view  there.  Dust,  toil,  cotton  bags,  ham¬ 
pers,  repairing  ships,  disloading  stones.  Carson  a  hash:  melan¬ 
choly  body  of  the  name  of  Sloan.  Wifckin’s  assiduity  in  caring 
for  me. 

Augunt  ( \th  (Saturday).  Taken  to  one  Johnstone,  a  frenchified 
Lockerby  man,  who  leads  me  to  Change.  Place  in  ‘Independent 
Tally  llo,’  Sir!  See  George  Johnstone,  surgeon,  whom  I  had  un¬ 
earthed  the  night  before.  .Patient  of  his.  He  dines  with  us. 
Walk  on  the  Terrace,  near  the  Cemetery.  Have  seen  the  steam 
coaches  in  the  morning.  Liverpool  a  dismembered  aggregate  of 
streets  and  sand  pits.  Market!  hubbub! 

AnguntHth..  Go  out  to  find.  Msbic.  lie  calls  on  me.  Confused 
family  dinner  ;  ditto  tea.  G.  Johnstone  again  ;  talk;  to  bed. 

Augunt  (Mh.  Off  on  Monday  morning.  Shipped  through  the 
Mersey ;  coached  through  Lasthain,  Chester,  Overton  (in  Wales), 

•  Liverpool  homo  of  Mrs.  Onrlylo’s  nnole  John, — the  uncle  who  was  mode 
hunt  nipt  Wiioh^Ii  a  fraudulent  partner,  and  afterwards  paid  nil  his  creditors 
in  I'nll. 

u  Julia’s  non. 


Six  Months  in  London. 


133 


Ellesmere,  Shrewsbury,  Wolverhampton,  Birmingham  ;  attempt 
at  tea  there.  Discover,  not  without  laughter,  the  villany  of  the 
Liverpool  coach  bookers.  Henley-in-Arden.  Stratford-on-Avon 
(horses  lost  there).  Get  to  sleep.  Oxford  at  three  in  the  morn¬ 
ing.  Out  again  there  ;  chill  but  pleasant.  Henley,  Maiden¬ 
head,  &c.  Arrive,  full  of  sulphur,  at  White  Horse  Cellar,  Picca¬ 
dilly.  Dismount  at  the  Begent  Circus,  and  am  wheeled  (not 
whirled)  hither  1  about  half-past  ten.  Poor  Jack  waiting  all  the 
while  at  the  Angel,  Islington.  Talk  together  when  he  returns  ; 
dine  at  an  eating-house  among  Frenchmen,  one  of  whom  ceases 
eating  to  hear  me  talk  of  the  St.  Simonians.  Leave  my  card  at 
the  Lord  Advocate’s,  with  promise  to  call  next  morning.  Sul¬ 
phurous  enough. 

These  extracts  supply  the  lost  places  in  Carlyle’s  mem¬ 
ory,  and  serve  as  a  frame  into  which  to  lit  the  following 
letter  to  his  wife.  The  intense  affection  which  he  felt  f oi¬ 
lier  is  visible  in  every  line. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Graigenyuttoc'k. 

6  Woburn  Buildings,  Tavistock  Square  :  August  11,  1831. 

Dearest  and  Wife, — I  have  got  a  frank  for  you  and  will  write 
from  the  heart  whatever  is  in  the  heart.  A  blessing  it  was  that 
you  made  me  give  such  a  promise  ;  for  I  feel  that  an  hour’s  speech 
in  speaking  with  my  own  will  do  me  infinite  good.  It  is  very 
sweet  in  the  midst  of  this  soul-confusing  phantasmagoria  to  know 
that  I  have  a  fixed  possession  elsewhere  ;  that  my  own  Jeannie 
is  thinking  of  me,  loving  me  ;  that  her  heart  is  no  dream  like  all 
the  rest  of  it.  Oh  love  me,  my  dearest — alwavs  love  me.  I  am 
richer  with  thee  than  the  whole  world  could  make  me  otherwise. 

But  to  be  practical.  Expect  no  connected  or  even  intelligible 
narrative  of  all  the  chaotic  sights,  sounds,  movements,  counter- 
movements  I  have  experienced  since  your  lips  parted  from  mine 
on  our  threshold — still  less  of  all  the  higher  chaotic  feelings  that 
have  danced  their  wild  torch  dance  within  me.  For  the  present  I 
must  content  myself,  like  Sir  William  Hamilton,  with  ‘  stating  a 
fact  or  two.’  Understand  then,  Goodykin,  that  after  infinite  con¬ 
fusion,  I  arrived  at  Liverpool  about  eight  o’clock  on  the  morning 

1  To  6  Woburn  Buildings,  Tavistock  Square — the  house  of  George  Irving, 
Edward  Irving’s  brother,  where  John  Carlyle  lodged. 


m 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


after  I  left  you,  quite  sleepless,  and  but  for  your  dinner  (which  I 
parted  with  a  certain  ‘  Esbie,’  whom  Alick  knows  well,  whom  I 
found  in  the  boat  and  j)reached  mysticism  to  for  six  hours),  quite 
victual-less.  The  Maryland  Street  people  1  were  not  up,  but  soon 
rose  and  received  me  well.  Delightful  it  was  to  get  into  a  room 
and — have  my  face  washed ;  and  then  on  opening  my  trunk  to  find 
everywhere  traces  of  my  good  ‘  coagitor’s  ’ 2  care  and  love.  The 
very  jujube  box  with  its  worsted  and  darning  needle  did  not  escape 
me  ;  it  was  so  beautiful  I  could  almost  have  cried  over  it.  Heaven 
reward  thee,  my  clear-headed,  warm-hearted,  dearest  little  Screami- 
kin ! 

John  Welsh  was  the  same  substantial,  honest  fellow  whom  we 
have  always  known  him  :  he  and  I  got  along,  as  we  always  do, 
beautifully  together. 

The  Auntie  was  loud,  talkative,  argumentative,  infinitely  bus¬ 
tling,  but  also  very  assiduous  in  showing  me  kindness.  To  make 
a  long  tale  short,  I  left  them  on  Sunday  morning  at  half-past  seven 
with  many  blessings  and  two  cups  of  sufficient  coffee,  which  the 
good  housewife  would  not  be  prevented  from  making  me  at  that 
early  hour. 

Which  last  hospitality  I  may  well  say  was  doubly  blest ;  for  it 
so  turned  out  this  was  the  only  refection  I  received  till  my  arri¬ 
val  in  London  on  the  following  day  about  ten  o’clock !  I  must 
except  a  penny  loaf  snatched  from  the  landlady  of  an  inn  in  Shrop¬ 
shire  ;  and  a  cup  of  hot  sugar  and  water  (as  the  whole  time  proved 
only  fifteen  minutes),  for  wffiich  I  had  the  pleasure  of  paying  lialf- 
a-crown  in  the  village  of  Birmingham.  How  all  this  happened, 
and  I  was  sent  circulating  over  the  whole  West  of  England,  set 
my  watch  by  the  Shrewsbury  clock,  and  saw  portions  of  Wales, 
and  had  the  delightfulest  drive,  only  no  victual,  or  knowledge  by 
what  route  I  was  bound — all  this  depended  on  the  art  of  the  Liver¬ 
pool  coach  agents,  at  which,  villanous  as  it  was,  I  could  not  help 
laughing,  when,  after  leaving  Birmingham,  I  came  to  see  into  the 
mystery.  There  are  men  in  Liverpool  who  will  book  you  to  go  by 
any  coach  you  like,  and  to  enter  London  at  any  place  and  hour  you 
like,  and  then  send  you  thither  by  any  coach  or  combination  of 
coaches  they  like.  I  was  booked  for  a  certain  imaginary  ‘  Tally 
Ho,’  went  by  seven  successive  vehicles  none  of  which  had  that 
name,  and  entered  London  three  hours  later  and  by  quite  the  op- 

1  Mr.  John  Welsh  and  his  family. 

2  His  wife.  Somebody's  pronunciation  of  ‘  coadjutor.’ 


Six  Months  in  London. 


135 


posite  side  than  I  had  appointed  John  to  wait  at.  Sulphurous 
enough.  However,  I  have  now  had  sleep  and  am  well.  The  only 
mischief  done  was  the  breaking  of  the  eggs ,  which,  however,  the  ware¬ 
houseman  has  now  made  good  again.  So  do  not  grieve  thyself, 
dearest.  The  broken  eggs  are  dearer  to  me  than  the  whole  ones 
would  have  been.  There  is  a  pathos  in  them,  and  I  love  Jeannie 
more. 

With  little  difficulty  I  conveyed  myself  and  luggage  to  Jack’s 
old  lodgings,  and  there  learnt  his  actual  address  at  no  great  dis¬ 
tance,  and,  to  my  astonishment,  in  the  upper  floor  of  George  Ir¬ 
ving’s  house,  who  also  lets  lodgings.  It  is  a  very  beautiful  sitting- 
room,  an  immense  bedroom  above  (and  John  sleeps  with  George), 
for  which  we  are  to  pay  25s.  weekly.  Quiet  and  airy,  and  among 
known  people.  All  is  right  in  this  respect. 

The  first  day  I  did  little  ;  yet  walked  over  to  the  Duke’s,1  found 
him  out,  and  left  my  card  with  a  promise  for  next  morning.  It  is 
between  two  and  three  miles  from  this.  On  arriving  there  I  was 
asked  my  name  and  then  instantly  ushered  in  and  welcomed  in 
their  choicest  mood  by  the  whole  family.  Mrs.  Jeffrey  was  as 
kind  as  ever ;  Charlotte  too  came  simpering  in  and  looked  as  if  she 
wroukl  let  me  live.  The  Advocate  retired  and  re-entered  with  your 
picture,  which  was  shown  round ;  for  little  I  could  have  grat  over 
it.  After  a  time  by  some  movements  I  got  the  company  dis¬ 
persed,  and  the  Advocate  by  himself,  and  began  to  take  counsel 
with  him  about  ‘  Teufelsdrockli.’  He  thought  Murray,  in  spite  of 
the  Radicalism,  would  be  the  better  publisher ;  to  him  accord¬ 
ingly  he  gave  me  a  line,  saying  that  I  was  a  genius  and  would 
likely  become  eminent ;  further,  that  he  (J effrey)  would  like  well 
to  confer  with  him  about  that  book.  I  directly  set  off  with  this 
to  Albemarle  Street ;  found  Murray  out ;  returned  afterwards  and 
found  him  in,  gave  an  outline  of  the  book,  at  which  the  Arimas- 
pian  smiled,  stated  also  that  I  had  nothing  else  to  do  here  but 
the  getting  of  it  published,  and  was  above  all  anxious  that  his  de¬ 
cision  should  be  given  soon.  He  answered  that  he  would  begin 
this  very  afternoon,  and  that  on  Wednesday  next  he  would  give 
me  an  answer.  I  then  went  off  ;  despatched  my  £  Teufelsdrockli’ 
with  your  tape  round  him.  Of  the  probable  issue  I  can  form  no 
conjecture :  only  Murray  seemed  to  know  me,  and  I  dare  say  is 
very  anxious  to  keep  well  with  Ministers,  so  will  risk  what  he 
dares. 


1  Jeffrey’s  house  in  Jermyn  Street. 


136 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Napier’s  letter  is  also  come,  with  a  note  to  Eees,  which  I  think 
I  shall  perhaps  not  deliver  (perhaps,  too,  I  may)  till  after  next 
Wednesday. 

Badams  called  here  an  hour  after  I  came  :  he  brought  his  wife 
next  day.  I  was  out,  but  saw  them  in  the  evening.  She  is  a 
good  woman,  and  good-looking,  whom  I  think  you  will  like.  He 
is  in  no  good  way,  I  doubt ;  yet  not  without  hope.  I  have  also 
seen  Mrs.  Montagu  ;  talked  longer  with  her  than  I  shall  speedily 
do  again,  for  she  seems  to  me  embittered  and  exasperated ;  and 
what  have  I  to  do  with  her  quarrels  ?  Jack  she  seems  positively 
to  have  cut,  because  he  would  not  turn  with  her  in  a  day  from  a 
transcendental  apotheosis  of  Badams  to  excommunication.  All 
things  go  round  and  round.  For  me,  as  I  told  her,  I  would  con¬ 
tinue  to  love  all  parties  and  pity  all,  and  hate  or  quarrel  with 
none. 

Jack  stands  glowering  o’er  me,  as  you  know  is  his  wont.  Tell 
Alick  all  my  news ;  read  him  the  letter  (so  much  of  it  as  you  can 
read),  and  give  to  everyone  my  kindest  brotherly  love. 

•» 

August  15. 

Your  kind  precious  letter  came  to  me  on  Friday  like  a  cup  of 
water  in  the  hot  desert.  It  is  all  like  yourself  :  so  clear,  precise, 
loving,  and  true  to  the  death.  I  see  poor  Craigenputtock  through 
it,  and  the  best  little  Goodykin  sitting  there,  hourly  meditating 
on  me  and  watching  my  return.  Oh,  I  am  very  rich  were  I  with¬ 
out  a  penny  in  the  world !  But  the  Herzen’s  Goody  must  not  fret 
herself  and  torment  her  poor  sick  head.  I  will  be  back  to  her ; 
not  an  hour  will  I  lose.  Heaven  knows  the  sun  shines  not  on 
the  spot  that  could  be  pleasant  to  me  where  she  were  not.  So 
be  of  comfort,  my  Jeannie,  and  with  thy  own  sweet  orderly  spirit 
make  calmness  out  of  confusion,  and  the  dawn  (as  it  does  in  some 
climates)  to  shine  through  the  whole  night  till  it  be  morning,  and 
the  sun  once  more  embraces  his  fair  kind  earth.  For  the  rest, 
thou  canst  not  be  too  ‘  Theresa-like ;  ’ 1  it  is  this  very  fidelity  to 
practical  nature  that  makes  the  charm  of  the  picture.  .  .  . 

I  am  getting  a  little  more  composed  in  this  whirlpool,  and  can 
tell  you  better  how  it  whirls. 

On  Friday  morning,  the  day  after  I  wrote,  Jack  walked  down 
with  me  to  Longmans,  and  I  delivered  Napier’s  note  to  a  staid, 
cautious,  business-like  man,  who  read  it  with  an  approving  smile, 

1  Theresa,  in  Wilhelm  Heister. 


Six  Months  in  London.  137 

listened  to  my  description  of  the  ‘  German  Literary  History 5  with 
the  same  smile  in  a  fixed  state,  and  then  (like  a  barbarian  as  he 
was)  ‘declined  the  article.’  He  was  polite  as  possible,  but  seemed 
determined  on  risking  nothing.  If  Murray  fail  me  (as  Wednesday 
will  probably  show),  I  have  calculated  that  it  will  be  hardly  worth 
while  to  offer  these  people  Dreck,  but  that  I  must  try  some  other 
course  with  him.  I  hope  not  at  all ,  therefore  hardly  think  that 
Murray  will  accept  (so  lucky  were  it),  and  am  already  looking  out 
what  I  can  for  other  resources  in  the  worst  issue.  Dreck 
shall  be  printed  if  a  man  in  London  will  do  it ;  if  not  with,  then 
without,  ‘  fee  or  reward.’  I  even  conjecture  still  that  this  is  the 
time  for  him  :  everybody  I  see  participates  in  the  feeling  that 
society  is  nigh  done ;  that  she  is  a  Phoenix  perhaps  not  so  many 
conjecture.  I  agree  with  my  prophetess  in  thinking  that  some 
young  adventurous  bookseller  were  the  hopefullest.  We  shall  see 
soon. 

Saturday  morning  I  wrote  to  Goethe  (with  kindest  love  from 
you  too) ;  also  to  Charles  Duller  and  to  Fraser  (notifying  my 
presence),  then  off  for  Shooter’s  Hill  some  ten  miles  away,  where 
we  arrived  in  time  for  dinner.  Strachey  is  as  alert  as  ever.  In 
his  poor  lady  I  had  room  to  mark  the  doings  of  time.  She  wore  a 
sad  secluded  look ;  I  learnt  she  had  been  for  three  years  violently 
dyspeptical.  Our  recognition  was  franker  on  my  part  than  on 
hers  ;  only  her  eyes  spoke  of  gladness ;  nay,  she  seemed  to  have  a 
kind  of  fear  of  me,  and  in  a  little  special  conversation  I  had  it  all 
to  myself.  She  inquired  kindly  for  you,  whom  I  described  as  one 
that  she  would  like,  a  haler  of  lies,  to  begin  with.  Poor  Julia 
Strachey !  She  is  like  a  flower  frozen  among  ice,  and  now  con¬ 
tented  with  such  soil :  a  hitherto  unnoticed  girl  had  rushed  up  to 
a  woman,  and  in  the  long  black  locks  I  noticed  a  streak  of  grey. 
Fleeting  time  !  Here  too  might  I  partly  discern  that  my  place 
was  changed,  though  still  (not  ?)  empty.  A  ‘  female  friend,’  skilled, 
it  is  said,  in  the  Greek  tragedians  ( credat  Apella),  was  there,  brim 
full  of  intolerant  Church  of  Englandism — a  little  grey-eyed,  ill-bred, 
fat  button  of  a  creature  (very  like  a  certain  white  sempstress  in  Eo 
clefeclian)  :  with  her  in  the  course  of  the  evening  I  was  provoked 
for  one  moment,  so  pert  was  she,  to  run  tilt,  and  I  fear  transfix  her. 
Strachey  was  beginning  a  hoarse  laugh,  but  suddenly  checked 
himself,  as  a  landlord  should  :  and  little  Dutton  went  oil  to  bed 
without  good-night,  but  was  blithe  again  next  morning.  That  such 
should  be  the  only  friend  of  such !  Let  not  us,  dear  J eannie,  com' 


138 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

plain  of  solitude.  I  have  still  you,  with  really  a  priceless  talent 
for  silence,  as  Mrs.  S.  too  has.  I  say  priceless,  for  this  Button 
wants  it  wholly,  and  thereby  I  felt  would  have  driven  me  in  three 
days  to  blank  despair. 

The  orator  was  at  Leamington  when  I  arrived.  He  only  returned 
Saturday  night,  has  already  been  up  here  to  see  me,  and  left  a 
message  that  he  would  be  at  home  all  day.  From  all  I  can  see, 
Irving  seems  to  have  taken  his  part :  is  forgotten  by  the  intellectual 
classes,  but  still  flourishes  as  a  green  bay-tree  (or  rather  green 
cabbage-tree)  among  the  fanatical  classes,  whose  ornament  and 
beacon  he  is.  Strangely  enough  it  is  all  fashioned  among  these 
people :  a  certain  everlasting  truth ,  ever  new  truth,  reveals  itself 
in  them,  but  with  a  body  of  mere  froth  and  soap-suds  and  other 
the  like  ephemeral  impurities.  Yet  I  love  the  man,  and  can 
trustfully  take  counsel  of  him.  His  wife  I  saw  some  nights  ago — 
leaner,  clearer-complexioned,  I  should  say  clearer-hearted  also,  and 
clearer- headed,  but,  alas !  very  straitlaced,  and  living  in  the  suds 
element. 

I  forced  myself  out  this  morning  to  go  and  breakfast  with  the 
Advocate,  and  was  there  before  anyone  was  up.  Charlotte  the 
younger  and  the  elder  received  me  in  their  choicest  mood.  In 
the  midst  of  breakfast  a  side  door  opened,  and  the  poor  Duke  looked 
in  in  his  night-gown  (for  they  have  made  the  back  drawing-room 
into  a  bed-room)  to  ask  for  me,  and  with  the  old  quizzicality  in 
his  little  face  declared,  ‘  Why,  Charley,  I’ve  got  the  cholera,  I  be¬ 
lieve.’  He  called  me  afterwards  into  his  bed-room  to  ask  how  I 
was  progressing,  thought  it  likely  that  Murray  would  publish  at 
some  time  or  other,  spoke  of  John,  asked  for  your  health,  and  what 
I  had  prescribed  for  you.  Letters  arriving,  I  got  your  frank  and 
withdrew,  straitly  charged  to  return.  I  am  to  take  tea  this  even¬ 
ing  at  Badams’s,  where  Godwin  is  promised. 


Wednesday,  August  17. 

I  left  off  on  the  eve  of  seeing  Irving  and  taking  tea  with  God¬ 
win.  The  first  object  I  accomplished.  Irving,  with  his  huge 
fleece  of  now  grizzled  hair,  was  eager  to  talk  with  me  and  see  me 
often.  I  was  with  him  last  night,  and  being  quite  in  his  neigh¬ 
bourhood  (within  three  minutes),  shall  take  frequent  opportunities 
of  seeing  him.  He  is  bent  on  our  coming  to  London,  of  which  I 
myself  can  yet  say  nothing.  Some  vague  schemes  of  settling  with¬ 
in  some  miles  of  it  (as  at  Enfield,  where  Badams  is  to  live)  are 


Six  Months  in  London. 


139 


hovering  about  me,  which  I  will  overhaul  and  see  through.  It 
will  all  depend  on  this,  can  I  get  work  here  and  money  for  it  to 
keep  any  sort  of  house  ?  which  question  is  yet  far  from  answered 
or  answerable.  However,  I  hope,  and  fear  not. 

Next  came  Godwin.  Did  you  not  grudge  me  that  pleasure,  now  ? 
At  least,  mourn  that  you  were  not  there  with  me  ?  Grudge  not, 
mourn  not,  dearest  Jeannie ;  it  was  the  most  unutterable  stupidity 
ever  enacted  on  this  earth.  We  went,  Jack  and  I,  to  the  huge 
Frenchwoman  Mrs.  Kenny’s  (once  Mrs.  Holcroft),  Badams’s  mother- 
in-law,  a  sort  of  more  masculine  Aurelia  (‘  Wilhelm  Meister  ’), 
who  lives,  moves,  and  has  her  being  among  plays,  operas,  dilet¬ 
tantes,  and  playwrights.  Badams  and  his  wife  had  not  returned 
from  the  country,  but  in  a  few  minutes  came.  Mrs.  Godwin  al¬ 
ready  sate  gossiping  in  the  dusk — an  old  woman  of  no  signifi¬ 
cance  ;  by-and-by  dropped  in  various  playwrightesses  and  play¬ 
wrights,  whom  I  did  not  even  look  at ;  shortly  before  candles 
Godwin  himself  (who  had  been  drinking  good  green  tea  by  his  own 
hearth  before  stirring  out).  He  is  a  bald,  bushy-browed,  thick, 
hoary,  hale  little  figure,  taciturn  enough,  and  speaking  when  ho 
does  speak  with  a  certain  epigrammatic  spirit,  wherein,  except  a 
little  shrewdness,  there  is  nothing  but  the  most  commonplace 
character.  (I  should  have  added  that  he  wears  spectacles,  has  full 
grey  eyes,  a  very  large  blunt  characterless  nose,  and  ditto  chin.) 
By  degrees  I  hitched  myself  near  him,  and  was  beginning  to  open 
him  and  to  open  on  him,  for  he  had  stared  twice  at  me,  wdien  sud¬ 
denly  enough  began  a  speaking  of  French  among  the  Kennys  and 
Badamsinas  (for  they  are  all  French-English),  and  presently 
Godwin  was  summoned  off  to — take  a  hand  at  whist !  I  had  al¬ 
ready  flatly  declined.  There  did  the  philosopher  sit,  and  a  swarm 
of  noisy  children,  chattering  women,  noisy  dilettantes  round  him  ; 
and  two  women  literally  crashing  hoarse  thunder  out  of  a  piano 
(for  it  was  louder  than  an  iron  forge)  under  pretext  of  its  being 
music  by  Bossini.  I  thought  of  my  own  piano,  and  the  far  differ¬ 
ent  fingering  it  got ;  looked  sometimes  not  without  sorrow  at  the 
long-nosed  whist-player,  and  in  the  space  of  an  hour  (seeing  sup- 
per  about  to  be  laid  in  another  room)  took  myself  away. 

Next  morning  (Tuesday)  I  went  to  Bowring’s.  Figure  to  your¬ 
self  a  thin  man  about  my  height  and  bent  at  the  middle  into  an 
angle  of  150°,  the  back  quite  straight,  with  large  grey  eyes,  a  huge 
turn-up  nose  with  straight  nostrils  to  the  very  point,  and  large 
projecting  close-shut  mouth  :  figure  such  a  one  walking  restlessly 


no  ' 


life  of  TKomm  Carlyle. 

about  the  room  (for  ho  had  boon  thrown  out.  of  a  gig,  and  was  in 
paiu),  flunk  of  speech,  vivid,  emphatic,  and  rerstaridiy.  Such  is 
tho  .Radical  Doctor.  We  talked  copiously,  ho  utterly  utilitarian 
and  Radical.  I  utterly  mystical  and  Radical ;  and  parted  about' 
noon  with  a  standing  .invitation  on  his  part  to  conic  again,  and 
promise  to  introduce  mo  to  tho  ‘  Kxaminor '  editor  (Fonblanque) ; 
and  a  certain  trust  on  my  part  and  disposition  to  cultivate  fur¬ 
ther  acquaintance.  He  named  several  booksellers  whom  I  might 
apply  to  in  case  Murray  baulked  me,  as  I  calculate  lie  is  but  too 
like  to  do. 

'Wednesday  morning  I  put  on  clean  raiment  (nothing  but  tho 
white  trowsors  are  wearable  here  for  the  heat,  and  1  have  still  only 

1/ 

two  pail's),  and  drawing  myself  a  chart  on  a  slip  of  paper,  started 
off  to  Albemarle  Street  according  to  bargain.  The  dog  of  a  book¬ 
seller  gone  to  the  country.  I  leave  my  card  with  remonstrances 
and  inquiries  when  ?  The  clerk  talks  of  4  Air.  Murray  writing  to 
you  sir  :  ’  I  will  call  again  to-morrow  morning  and  make  Mr.  M. 
speak  to  me,  I  hope.  .  .  . 

I  went  to  the  House  of  Commons  last  night  and 
found  at  the  door  a  Speaker's  order  awaiting  me  from  the  Duke. 
It  is  a  pretty  apartment  that  of  theirs;  far  smaller  than  I  ex¬ 
pected,1  hardly  larger  than  some  drawing-rooms  you  have  seen, 
with  some  four  ranges  of  benches  rising  high  behind  each  other 
like  pew  sin  a  church  gallery,  an  oval  open  space  in  the  middle,  at 
tho  farther  extremity  of  which  sits  the  Speaker  in  what  seemed  a 
kind  of  press  (like  our  wardrobe,  only  oaken)  ;  opposite  him  is  the 
door.  A  very  narrow  gallery  runs  all  round  atop  for  reporters, 
strangers.  vVe.  I  was  seated  on  the  ground  floor  below' this.  Al- 
tliorp  spoke,  a  thick,  large,  broad-w  hiskered,  farmer-looking  man  ; 
Hume  also,  a  powdered,  clean,  burly  fellow' ;  and  Wet  lie  roll,  a 
beetle-browed,  sagacious,  quia. deal  old  gentleman  ;  then  Davies,  a 
Roman-nosed  dandy,  whom  I  left  joanrriuy,  having  left  it  all  in 
some  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  OVonnoll  came  and  spoke  to  an 
individual  before  me.  You  would  call  him  a  well-doing  country 
shopkeeper,  with  a  bottle-green  frock  or  great,  coat,  and  brown 
scratch  wig.  I  quitted  them  with  the  highest  contempt;  our  poor 
Duke,  or  any  known  face.  1  could  not  sec. 

This  morning  1  returned  to  Albemarle  Street;  the  bookseller 
was  first  denied  to  me.  then  showed  his  broad  one-eved  face,  and 
w  ith  fair  speeches  signified  that  his  family  w  ere  all  ill,  and  he  had 

1  The  aid  house,  before  tho  lire. 


Six  Months  in  London. 


141 


been  called  into  the  country ;  and  my  manuscript — lay  still  un¬ 
opened  !  I  reminded  him  not  without  emphasis  of  the  engage¬ 
ment  made,  and  how  I  had  nothing  else  to  do  here  but  see  that 
matter  brought  to  an  end,  to  all  which  he  pleaded  hard  in  extenu¬ 
ation,  and  for  two  or  three  days’  further  allowance.  I  made  him 
name  a  new  day  :  ‘  Saturday  first ;  ’  then  I  am  to  return  and  learn 
how  the  matter  stands.  He  is  said  to  be  noted  for  procrastination, 
but  also  for  honourableness,  even  munificence.  My  prospects 
apart  from  him  are  not  brilliant ;  however,  loss  of  time  is  the 
worst  of  all  losses  ;  he  shall  not  keep  me  dancing  round  him  very 
long,  go  how  it  may.  Of  the  Duke  I  would  gladly  take  counsel ; 
but  find  no  opportunity  to  speak — a  visit  profits  almost  nothing. 
Happily,  however,  I  can  take  counsel  of  myself. 

I  am  to  dine  with  Drummond  the  banker  to-morrow,  an  admirer 
of  mine  whom  I  have  never  seen.  On  Saturday  with  Allan  Cun¬ 
ningham.  These  are  my  outlooks  for  the  present. 

August  23. 

My  dearest  little  Comforter, — Your  dear  kind  letter  arrived  that 
Thursday  night,  though  not  till  late — with  the  very  latest  of  the 
‘  Twopennies,’  I  think ;  which  invaluable  class  of  men*  keep  trav¬ 
elling  here  all  day  from  eight  in  the  morning  till  ten  at  night. 
My  blessings  on  thee,  little  Goody,  for  the  kind  news  thou  seiid- 
est!  It  is  all  a  living  picture,  and  the  dear  Screamikin  artist 
standing  in  the  middle  of  it,  both  acting  it  and  drawing  it  for  my 
sake.  I  saw  your  half-insane  beer-barrel  of  a  Fyffe,1  and  the 
midges  all  buzzing  round  him  in  the  sultry  morning  ;  the  racket  of 
the  Macturk  chaise,  your  rushing  forth  to  the  post-office,  your 
eager  devouring  of  my  letter,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  in  which,  alas ! 
the  headache  and  the  two  hours  of  sleep  did  not  escape  me.  Com- 
pose  thyself,  my  darling  ;  we  shall  not  be  separated,  come  of  it 
what  may.  And  how  should  we  do,  tliink’st  thou,  with  an  eternal 
separation  ?  O  God,  it  is  fearful !  fearful !  But  is  not  a  little 
temporary  separation  like  this  needful  to  manifest  what  daily 
mercy  is  in  our  lot  which  otherwise  we  might  forget,  or  esteem  as 
a  thing  of  course  ?  Understand,  however,  once  more  that  I  have 
yet  taken  up  with  no  other  woman.  Nay,  many  as  I  see  light 
air-forms  tripping  it  in  satin  along  the  streets,  or  plumed  amazons 
curbing  their  palfreys  in  the  park  with  pomp  and  circumstance 

1  A  Haddington,  doctor,  one  of  Miss  Welsh’s  many  suitors  before  her  maiv 
riage. 


142 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


enough — there  has  no  one  jet  fronted  me  whom  even  to  look  at  I 
would  exchange  with  my  own.  Ach  Gott !  there  is  not  such  a  one 
extant.  Yes,  as  proud  as  I  am  grown  (for  the  more  the  Devil 
pecks  at  me,  the  more  vehemently  do  I  wring  his  nose),  and  stand¬ 
ing  on  a  kind  of  basis  which  I  feel  to  be  of  adamant,  I  perceive 
that  of  all  women  my  own  Jeannie  is  the  wife  for  me  ;  that  in  her 
true  bosom  (once  she  were  a  mystic)  a  man’s  head  is  worthy  to  lie. 
Be  a  mystic,  dearest ;  that  is,  stand  with  me  on  this  everlasting 
basis,  and  keep  thy  arms  around  me  :  through  life  I  fear  nothing. 

But  I  must  proceed  with  my  journal  of  life  in  London.  My 
narrative  must  have  finished  on  Thursday  night  about  five  o’clock. 
Jack  and  I  went  out  to  walk  and  make  calls  after  that ;  found  no 
one  at  home  but  Mrs.  Badams,  who  was  nigh  weeping  when  she 
spoke  to  us  of  her  husband.  Poor  thing,  she  has  a  ticklish  game 
to  play ;  for  Badams  seems  to  me  to  be  hovering  on  the  verge  of 
ruin — uncertain  as  yet  whether  he  will  turn  back,  or  only  plunge 
down,  down.  I  tell  all  this  in  one  word  :  he  is  in  the  habit  of 
daily  drinking  brandy  till  his  head  gets  confused.  He  began  this 
accursed  practice  not  many  months  ago  for  the  sake  of  an  intoler¬ 
able  headache  he  had,  and  which  brandy  (then  nauseous  enough  to 
him)  was  wont  to  cure ;  but  now  I  suspect  the  nauseousness  has 
ceased,  and  the  brandy  is  chiefly  coveted  because  it  yields  stupe¬ 
faction.  His  volition  seems  gone,  or  quite  dormant ;  his  gig  has 
broken  down  with  him  all  to  shivers,  at  full  speed.1 

With  the  Montagus  I  have  somewhat  less  sympathy.  It  seems 
still  uncertain  whether  they  will  lose  anything  by  him,2  and  their 
ferocity  (except  from  Basil)  is  quite  transcendental.  On  the  whole 
my  original  impression  of  that  ‘  noble  lady  ’  was  the  true  one. 
***********  g]10  g0es  upon  words — words. 

I  called  once  more  and  left  my  card,  and  shall  continue  at  rare 
intervals  to  do  the  like  ;  but  for  trust  or  friendship  it  is  now 
more  clearly  than  ever  a  chimsera.  I  smiled  (better  than  the 
Duke  did)  at  her  offer  of  4  giving  you  money  ’  to  come  hither. 
Jane  Welsh  Carlyle  a  taker  of  money  in  this  era  of  the  gigmen  ! 
Nimmer  und  nimmermehr .  *  *  ********** 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Tush  !  it  is  all  stuff  and  fudge  and  fiddle-faddle,  of  which  I  be¬ 
gin  to  grow  aweary.  Oh  no,  my  dearest  ;  we  will  have  no  meet- 

1  Badams — once  one  of  Carlyle’s  truest  and  most  useful  friends — died  mis¬ 
erably  soon  after. 

2  Badams  had  led  them  into  some  speculation  which  had  not  been  successful* 


Six  .Months  in  London. 


143 


ings  tliat  wo  cannot  purchase  for  ourselves.  We  shall  meet ;  nay, 
perhaps,  ere  long  tliou  slialt  see  London  and  thy  husband  in  it,  on 
earnings  of  our  own.  From  all  which  the  practical  inference  is, 
‘  let  us  endeavour  to  clear  our  minds  of  cant.’ 

Friday  I  spent  with  Irving  in  the  animali  parlanti  region  of  the 
supernatural.  Understand,  ladykin,  that  the  ‘  gift  of  tongues  ’  is 
here  also  (chielly  among  the  women),  and  a  positive  belief  that 
God  is  still  working  miracles  in  the  Church — by  hysterics.  Nay, 
guess  my  astonishment  when  I  learned  that  y>oor  Dow  of  Iron- 
gray  1  is  a  wonder-worker  and  speaker  with  tongues,  and  had 
actually  ‘  cast  out  a  devil  ’  (which  however  returned  again  in  a 
week)  between  you  and  Dumfries  !  I  gave  my  widest  stare  ;  but 
it  is  quite  indubitable.  His  autograph  letter  was  read  to  me,  de¬ 
tailing  all  that  the  ‘  Laart  ’  had  done  for  him.  Poor  fellow !  it 
was  four  days  after  his  wife’s  death.  I  was  very  wae  for  him,  and 
not  a  little  shocked.  Irving  hauled  me  off  to  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields 
to  hear  my  double  (Mr.  Scott),  where  I  sate  directly  behind  a 
speakeress  with  tongues,  who  unhappily,  however,  did  not  perform 
till  after  I  was  gone.  My  double  is  more  like  ‘Maitland,’  the  cot¬ 
ton-eared,  I  hope,  than  mo  ;  a  thin,  black- complexioned,  vehement 
man,  earnest,  clear,  and  narrow  as  a  tailor’s  listing.  For  a  stricken 
hour  did  he  sit  expounding  in  the  most  superannuated  dialect  (of 
Cliroist  and  so  forth),  yet  with  great  heartiness  the  meaning  of  that 
one  word  Entsagen.  The  good  Irving  looked  at  me  wistfully,  for 
he  knows  I  cannot  take  miracles  in ;  yet  he  looks  so  piteously,  as 
if  he  implored  me  to  believe.  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  was  the  Devil 
ever  busier  than  now,  when  the  supernatural  must  cither  depart 
from  the  world,  or  reappear  there  like  a  cha£>ter  of  Hamilton’s 
*  Diseases  of  Females  ’  ? 

At  night  I  fondly  trusted  that  wo  had  done  with  the  miraculous ; 
but  no,  Henry  Drummond  too  is  a  believer  in  it.  This  Drum¬ 
mond,  who  inhabits  a  splendid  mansion  in  the  west,  proved  to  bo 
a  very  striking  man.  Taller  and  leaner  than  I,  but  erect  as  a 
plummet,  with  a  high-carried,  quick,  penetrating  head,  some  five- 
and -forty  years  of  age,  a  singular  mixture  of  all  things — of  the 
saint,  the  wit,  the  philosopher — swimming,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  an 
element  of  dandyism.  His  dinner  was  dandiacal  in  the  extreme  : 
a  meagre  series  of  pretentious  kickshaws,  on  which  no  hungry  jaw 
could  satisfactorily  bite,  flunkies  on  all  hands,  yet  I  had  to  ask 
four  times  before  I  could  get  a  morsel  of  bread.  His  wife  has  had 

1  A  Craigenputtock  neighbour. 


ITT  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

‘  twenty  miscarriages,’  and  looks  pitiful  enough.  Besides  her  we 
were  five  :  Spencer  Percival,  Member  of  the  House  (of  Stupids, 
called  of  Commons)  ;  Tudor,  a  Welshman,  editor  of  the  ‘Morning 
Watch ;  ’  our  host,  Irving,  and  I.  They  were  all  prophetical, 
Toryish,  ultra-religious.  I  emitted,  notwithstanding,  floods  of 
Teufelsdrockhist  Radicalism,  which  seemed  to  fill  them  with  ireeu- 
cler  and  amazement,  but  was  not  ill  received,  and  indeed  refused 
to  be  gainsayed.  We  parted  with  friendliest  indifference,  and  shall 
all  be  happy  to  meet  again,  and  to  part  again.  This  Drummond, 
who  is  a  great  pamphleteer,  has  ‘  quoted  ’  me  often,  it  seems,  &c.  * 
He  is  also  a  most  munificent  and  beneficent  man — as  his  friends  say. 

On  Saturday  morning  I  set  out  for  Albemarle  Street.  Murray, 
as  usual,  was  not  in ;  but  an  answer  lay  for  me — my  poor  ‘  Teufels- 
drockh,’  wrapped  in  new  paper,  with  a  letter  stuck  under  the 
packthread.  I  took  it  with  a  silent  fury  and  walked  off.  The  let¬ 
ter  said  he  regretted  exceedingly,  &c.  ;  all  his  literary  friends  were 
out  of  town ;  he  himself  occupied  wflth  a  sick  family  in  the  coun¬ 
try  ;  that  he  had  conceived  the  finest  hopes,  &c.  In  short,  that 
‘  Teufelsdrockh  ’  had  never  been  looked  into  ;  but  that  if  I  would 
let  him  keep  it  for  a  month,  he  would  then  be  able  to  say  a  word, 
and  by  God’s  blessing  a  favourable  one. 

I  walked  on  through  Regent  Street  and  looked  in  upon  James 
Fraser,  the  bookseller.  We  got  to  talk  about  ‘Teufelsdrockh,’ 
when,  after  much  hithering  and  thithering  about  the  black  state 
of  trade,  &c.,  it  turned  out  that  honest  James  would  publish  the 
book  for  me  on  this  principle  :  if  I  would  give  him  a  sum  not  ex¬ 
ceeding  150/.  sterling  !  ‘  I  think  you  had  better  wait  a  little,’  said 

an  Edinburgh  advocate  to  me  since,  when  he  heard  of  this  propo¬ 
sal.  ‘  Yes,’  I  answered,  ‘  it  is  my  purpose  to  wait  to  the  end  of 
eternity  for  it.’  ‘  But  the  public  will  not  buy  books.1  ‘  The  pub¬ 
lic  has  done  the  wisest  thing  it  could,  and  ought  never  more  to 
buy  wdiat  they  call  books.’ 

Spurning  at  destiny,  yet  in  the  mildest  terms  taking  leave  of 
Fraser,  I  strode  through  the  streets  carrying  Teufelsdrockh  openly 
in  my  hand.  I  took  a  pipe  and  a  glass  of  water,  and  counsel  with 
myself.  I  was  bilious  and  sad,  and  thought  of  my  dear  Jeannie, 
for  whom  also  were  these  struggles.  Having  rested  a  little,  I  set 
out  again  to  the  Longmans,  to  hear  what  they  had  to  say.  The 
German  Literary  History  having  soon  been  despatched,  I  describe 
Teufelsdrockh,  bargain  that  they  are  to  look  at  it  themselves,  and 
send  it  back  again  in  two  days :  that  is  to-morrow.  They  are 


Six  Months  in  London. 


145 


honest,  ragged,  punctual-looking  people,  and  will  keep  their  word, 
but  the  chance  of  declining  seems  to  me  a  hundred  to  one.  A  la 
bonne  heure  !  I  have  a  problem  which  is  possible  :  either  to  get 
Dreck  printed,  or  to  ascertain  that  I  cannot,  and  so  tie  him  up  and 
come  home  with  him.  So  fear  nothing,  love.  I  care  not  a  doit 
for  the  worst ;  and  thou  too  hast  the  heart  of  a  heroine — art  worthy 
of  me  were  I  the  highest  of  heroes.  Nay,  my  persuasion  that  Teu- 
felsdrockh  is  in  his  place  and  liis  time  here,  grows  stronger  the 
more  I  see  of  London  and  its  philosophy.  The  doctrine  of  the 
Phoenix,  of  Natural  Supernaturalism,  and  the  whole  Clothes  Phi¬ 
losophy  (be  it  but  well  stated)  is  exactly  what  all  intelligent  men 
are  wanting. 

Sunday  morning  had  a  snip  of  a  note  from  Enrpson.  Walked 
over  to  Jermyn  Street ;  saw  the  Duke;  had  to  tell  him  openly  (or  • 
not  at  all)  how  it  stood  with  my  manuscript ;  felt  clear  and  sharp 
as  a  war  weapon,  for  the  world  was  not  brotherly  to  me.  The 
Charlottes  were  at  church.  I  consulted  the  Duke  about  Napier ; 
found  my  own  idea  confirmed  that  he  was  anxious  enough  to  have 
me  write,  but  afraid  lest  I  committed  him ;  so  that  ‘  agreeing  about 
subjects’  would  be  the  difficulty.  Jeffrey  asked  to  see  my  MS. 
when  the  Longmans  had  done  with  it :  he  would  look  through  it 
and  see  what  he  could  talk  to  Murray  concerning  it.  I  gladly  con¬ 
sented  ;  and  thus  for  a  while  the  matter  rests.  Murray  is  clearly 
the  man  if  he  will ;  only  I  have  lost  ten  days  by  him  already,  for 
he  might  have  told  me  what  he  did  finally  tell  in  one  day. 

Carlyle,  little  sanguine  as  he  was,  had  a  right  to  he  sur¬ 
prised  at  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  publisher  for  his  hook. 
Seven  years  before  he  had  received  a  hundred  pounds  for 
his  ‘  Life  of  Schiller.’  It  had  been  successful  in  England. 
It  had  been  translated  into  German  under  the  eye  of 
Goethe  himself.  4  Sartor  ’  Carlyle  reckoned  to  be  at  least 
three  times  as  good,  and  no  one  seemed  inclined  to  look  at  it. 

Meanwhile,  on  another  side  of  his  affairs  the  prospect 
unexpectedly  brightened.  Ills  brother  had  been  the  heav¬ 
iest  of  his  anxieties.  A  great  lady,  ‘the  Countess  of  Clare,’ 
was  going  abroad  and  required  a  travelling  physician.  Jeff¬ 
rey  heard  of  it,  and  with  more  real  practical  kindness  than 
Carlyle  in  his  impatience  had  been  inclined  to  credit  him 
Vol.  II. — 10 


146 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

with,  successfully  recommended  John  Carlyle  to  her.  The 
arrangements  were  swiftly  concluded.  The  struggling, 
penniless  John  was  lifted  at  once  into  a  situation  of  re¬ 
sponsibility  and  security,  with  a  salary  which  placed  him 
far  beyond  need  of  further  help,  and  promised  to  enable 
him  to  repay  at  no  distant  time  both  his  debt  to  Jeffrey, 
and  all  the  money  which  Carlyle  had  laid  out  for  him. 
Here  was  more  than  compensation  for  the  other  disap¬ 
pointments.  Hot  only  Carlyle  had  no  longer  to  feel  that 
he  must  divide  his  poor  earnings  to  provide  for  his  broth¬ 
er’s  wants  in  London,  but  he  could  look  without  anxiety 
on  his  own  situation,  lie  even  thought  himself  permitted, 
instead  of  returning  to  Craigenputtock,  to  propose  that 
Mrs.  Carlyle  should  join  him  in  London  without  the  help 
of  Mrs.  Montagu.  He  was  making  friends  ;  he  was  being 
talked  about  as  a  new  phenomenon  of  a  consequence  as 
yet  unknown.  Review  and  magazine  editors  were  recover¬ 
ing  heart,  and  again  seeking  his  assistance.  He  could 
write  his  articles  as  well  in  a  London  lodging  as  in  the 
snowy  solitudes  of  Dunscore,  while  he  could  look  about 
him  and  weigh  at  more  leisure  the  possibilities  of  finally 
removing  thither.  He  wrote  to  propose  it,  and  awaited 
his  wife’s  decision.  Meanwhile  his  letters  continue  his 
story. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

London :  August  26,  1831. 

My  dear  Mother, — As  Jack  proposes  writing  to  my  father, 
doubtless  he  will  mention  the  good  tidings  he  has  to  tell,  namely, 
of  an  appointment  to  be  travelling  physician  to  a  lady  of  great 
rank,  the  Countess  of  Clare,  with  a  salary  of  300  guineas  a  year, 
all  travelling  expenses  included.  This  is  the  work  of  the  Lord 
Advocate,  Jeffrey,  and  is  looked  on  by  everyone  as  a  piece  of  real 
good  fortune.  For  yourself,  my  dear  mother,  I  know  how  you 
dislike  foreign  voyaging,  and  that  all  your  maternal  fears  will  be 
awakened  by  this  arrangement.  However,  you  too  will  reflect  that 
anything  in  honesty  is  better  than  forced  idleness ,  which  was  poor 


Six  Months  in  London. 


147 


Doil’s 1  condition  here  ;  also  yon  may  take  my  word  for  it  tliat  the 
dangers  of  such  a  course  of  travel  are  altogether  trifling — not 
equal  to  those  of  walking  the  London  streets,  and  running,  every 
time  you  cross,  lest  coaches  break  a  limb  of  you.  The  lady  her¬ 
self  is  an  invalid,  and  must  journey  with  every  convenience. 
Italy,  whither  they  are  bound,  is  the  finest  of  climates ;  and  the 
sailing  part  of  it  is  simply  of  three  hours’  continuance — in  whole, 
twenty-jive  miles.  I  have  seen  some  people  who  know  the  Count¬ 
ess,  and  all  give  her  a  good  character.  She  is  young  (perhaps 
thirty-three),  courteous,  and  has  behaved  in  this  transaction  with 
great  liberality.  Jack  also  is  much  more  prudent  and  manly  in 
his  ways  than  he  was  ;  so  that  I  think  there  is  a  fair  prospect  of 
his  even  doing  the  poor  lady  some  good,  and  getting  into  a  friendly 
relation  to  her,  which  also  may  eventually  do  himself  much  good. 
Something  mysterious  there  is  in  the  condition  of  this  high  per¬ 
sonage.  She  was  married  some  years  ago,  and  shortly  after  that 
event  she  parted  from  her  husband  (they  say  by  her  own  deter¬ 
mination),  the  nearest  friends  know  not  for  what  reason  ;  and  now 
she  lives  in  a  sort  of  widowhood  (her  husband  is  Governor  of 
Bombay,  and  said  to  be  ‘  a  very  good  sort  of  man’),  so  that  be¬ 
ing  farther  in  ill-health  she  is  probably  unhappy  enough,  and  has 
need  of  good  counsel  every  way. 

The  business  of  the  book  proceeds  but  crabbedly.  The  whole 
English  world  I  find  has  ceased  to  read  books,  which,  as  I  often 
say  to  the  booksellers,  is  the  wisest  thing  the  English  world  could 
do,  considering  what  wretched  froth  it  has  been  dosed  with  for 
many  years,  under  the  false  title  of  ‘  books.’  Every  mind  is  en¬ 
grossed  with  political  questions,  and  in  a  more  earnest  mood  than 
to  put  up  with  such  stuff  as  has  been  called  literature.  Mean¬ 
while,  though  I  cannot  but  rejoice  in  this  state  of  public  opinion, 
yet  the  consequences  to  myself  are  far  from  favourable.  The  pres¬ 
ent,  too,  I  find,  is  the  deadest  part  of  the  whole  year  for  busi¬ 
ness,  so  that  every  way  the  matter  moves  heavily,  and  I  require  to 
have  my  own  shoulder  at  it  always  or  it  would  not  move  at  all. 
Hitherto  I  have  made  no  approximation  to  a  bargain,  except  find¬ 
ing  that  man  after  man  will  not  act ,  and  only  at  best  demands 
‘  time  for  consideration,’  which,  except  in  very  limited  measure,  I 
cannot  afford  to  give  him.  The  MS.  is  at  present  in  Jeffrey’s 
hands,  whence  I  expect  to  receive  it  in  some  two  days  with  a  fa¬ 
vourable,  or  at  worst  an  unfavourable  judgment — in  either  of  which 

1  Family  nickname  of  John  Carlyle. 


148 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

cases  I  shall  find  out  what  to  do.  Little  money,  I  think,  will  be 
had  for  my  work,  but  I  will  have  it  printed  if  there  be  a  man  in 
London  that  will  do  it,  even  without  payment  to  myself.  If  there 
be  no  such  man,  why  then  what  is  to  be  done  but  tie  a  piece  of 
good  skeenyie  about  my  papers,  stick  the  whole  in  my  pocket,  and 
march  home  again  with  it,  where  at  least  potatoes  and  onions  are 
to  be  had,  and  I  can  wait  till  better  times.  Nay,  in  any  case  I  find 
that  either  in  possession  or  pretty  certain  expectation,  I  am  other¬ 
wise  worth  almost  100/.  of  cash  ;  so  that  while  the  whinstone  house 
stands  on  the  moor,  what  care  I  for  one  of  them,  or  for  all  of 
them  with  the  arch-Enemy  at  their  head  ? 

Of  any  permanent  settlement  here  there  is  as  yet  nothing  defi¬ 
nite  to  be  said.  I  see  many  persons  here,  some  of  them  kind 
and  influential,  almost  all  of  them  ignorant  enough,  and  in  need 
of  a  teacher ;  but  no  offer  that  can  be  laid  hold  of  presents  itself 
or  fixedly  promises  itself.  This  also  I  will  see  through.  If  God 
who  made  me  and  keeps  me  alive  have  work  for  me  here,  then 
here  must  I  pitch  my  tent ;  if  not,  then  elsewhere,  still  under  his 
kind  sky,  under  his  all-seeing  eye,  to  me  alike  where.  I  am 
rather  resolute  sometimes,  not  without  a  touch  of  grimness,  but 
never  timid  or  discouraged ;  indeed,  generally  quite  quiet  and 
cheerful.  If  I  see  no  way  of  getting  home  soon,  I  have  some 
thoughts  of  bringing  Jane  up  hither,  for  she  must  be  very  lonely 
where  she  is.  We  shall  see. 

Thus,  my  dear  mother,  does  it  stand  with  us.  I  write  you  all 
this  to  satisfy  your  anxieties.  Be  of  good  cheer ;  trust  for  us,  as 
for  all  things,  in  the  Giver  of  good,  who  will  order  all  things  well. 
Assure  my  father  of  my  entire  love ;  and  say  that  I  hope  to  tell 
him  many  things  when  I  return. 

My  kindest  love  to  all,  not  forgetting  Jean  or  any  of  the  girls. 
God  keep  you  and  all  of  them.  That  is  ever  my  heart’s  prayer. 
Many  times,  too,  does  she  that  is  not  now  with  us  1  revisit  my 
thoughts  :  inexpressibly  sad,  inexpressibly  mild ;  but  I  mourn 
not.  I  rather  rejoice  that  she  is  now  safe  in  the  land  of  eternity, 
not  in  the  troublous,  ever-shifting  ]and  of  time  and  of  dreams. 
Oh,  often  I  think  that  she  is  with  me  in  my  heart  whispering  to  me 
to  bear  and  forbear  even  as  she  did,  to  endure  to  the  end,  and  then 
we  shall  meet  again  and  part  no  more.  Even  as  God  will  be  it ! 

I  conclude  mournfully  but  not  unhappily.  Shall  not  the  Great 
Father  wipe  away  the  tears  from  all  eyes?  Again  and  again  I 

1  His  sister  Margaret. 


Six  Months  in  London. 


149 


say,  let  us  trust  in  Him  and  Him  only.  Let  us  ever  live  in  hope, 
in  faith  !  God  bless  you  all ! 

I  am,  dear  mother,  your  affectionate  son, 

T.  Carlyle. 


To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Craig enpnttocJc. 

August  29. 

Dearest  Wife, — This  is  Monday,  and  I  have  already,  taking  no 
counsel  with  flesh  and  blood,  discharged  two  little  duties :  first 
gone  and  seen  Empson  (whom  I  had  heretofore  missed)  before 
breakfast ;  second,  arranged  my  washerwoman’s  goods,  and  made 
an  invoice  thereof  that  she  may  call  for  them,  which  duty  it  were 
my  dear  Goody’s  part  to  do  were  I  not  for  a  time  Goodyless ;  so 
that  now  at  noontide  I  can  sit  down  with  a  clear  conscience,  and 
talk  heartily  and  lieartsomely  with  my  own  child  about  all  things 
and  about  nothing,  as  is  my  wont  and  my  delight.  Thus  in  this 
spectre  crowded  desert  I  have  a  living  person  whose  heart  I  can 
clasp  to  mine,  and  so  feel  that  I  too  am  alive.  Do  you  not  love 
me  better  than  ever  now  ?  I  feel  in  my  own  soul  that  thou  dost 
and  must.  Therefore  let  us  never  mourn  over  this  little  separa¬ 
tion  which  is  but  to  make  the  reunion  more  blessed  and  entire. 

Your  two  letters  are  here  in  due  season,  like  angels  (angel 
means  heavenly  messenger )  from  a  far  country.  The  first,  as  I 
prophesied,  lay  waiting  for  me  at  my  return ;  the  second  I  found 
lying  on  the  Duke’s  table  on  Saturday,  and  snatched  it  up  and 
read  it  in  the  hubbub  of  Piccadilly  so  soon  as  I  could  tear  myself  - 
out  into  the  solitude  of  crowds.  Bless  thee,  my  darling !  I  could 
almost  wish  thee  the  pain  of  a  ride  to  Dumfries  weekly  for  the 
sake  of  such  a  letter.  But  had  you  actually  to  faint  all  the  way 
up  ?  Heaven  forbid  !  And  the  ‘  disease  ’  on  that  fair  face — how 
is  it  ?  If  no  better,  never  mind  ;  I  swear  that  it  shall  and  will  get 
better,  or  if  it  do  not,  that  I  will  love  you  more  than  ever  while  it 
lasts.  Will  that  make  amends?  It  is  no  vain  parade  of  rhetoric ; 
it  is  a  serious  fact :  my  love  for  you  does  not  depend  on  looks,  and 
defies  old  age  and  decay,  and,  I  can  prophesy,  will  grow  stronger 
the  longer  we  live  and  toil  together.  Yes,  Jeannie,  though  I  have 
brought  you  into  rough,  rugged  conditions,  I  feel  that  I  have 
saved  you  :  as  Gigmaness  you  could  not  have  lived ;  as  woman 
and  wife  you  need  but  to  see  your  duties  in  order  to  do  them,  and 
to  say  from  the  heart,  It  is  good  for  me  to  be  here.  So  keep  thy 
arms  round  me,  and  be  my  own  prophetess  and  second  self,  and 


150 


i 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

fear  nothing,  let  the  Devil  do  his  worst.  Poor  Elizabeth ! 1  I 
fear,  as  you  fear,  that  it  is  not  well  with  her.  Nevertheless,  who 
knows  the  issues  of  life  and  death  ?  Let  us  hope  the  best.  Above 
all,  do  not  you  be  a  coward.  I  love  you  for  your  bravery ,  and  be¬ 
cause  you  have  the  heart  of  a  valiant  woman.  Oh,  my  darling,  is 
it  conceivable  that  we  should  live  divided  in  this  unfriendly 
scene?  Crown  me  with  all  laurels  that  ever  decorated  man’s 
brow :  were  it  other  than  the  bitterest  of  mockeries  if  she  who 
had  struggled  with  me  were  not  there  to  share  it  ? 

But  I  must  check  this  lyrical  tendency.  Of  history  there  is  lit¬ 
tle  to  be  told.  Slowly,  slowly  does  the  business  of  poor  Dreck 
get  along,  let  me  push  it  as  I  may.  Heaven  bless  my  own  prophet¬ 
ess,  who  has  from  the  first  prophesied  only  good  of  it.  Yes,  good 
will  come  of  it ;  for  it  was  honestly  meant,  and  the  best  we  could 
do.  Meanwhile  do  but  mark  how  sluggishly  it  loiters. 

Yesterday  I  returned  (to  Jermyn  Street),  found  the  family  coach 
at  the  door,  and  all  in  the  act  of  drawing  on  gloves  to  go  out,  ex¬ 
cept  the  Duke,  with  whom,  after  some  gabblement  with  the  others, 
I  had  the  unwonted  satisfaction  of  a  private  conversation — for  ten 
minutes.  Inquiring,  for  Teufelsdrockli,  as  I  was  privileged  to 
do,  the  critic  professed  that  he  had  ‘  honestly  read  ’  twenty-eight 
pages  of  it  (surprising  feat) ;  that  he  objected  to  the  dilatoriness 
of  the  introductory  part  (as  we  both  did  also),  and  very  much  ad¬ 
mired  the  scene  of  the  sleeping  city ;  further,  that  he  would  write 
to  Murray  that  very  day,2  as  I  gather  from  Empson  he  has  since 
done,  to  appoint  a  meeting  with  him,  and  if  possible  attain  some 
finish  with  that  individual  at  least.  He  (Jeffrey)  would  look 
through  the  book  further  in  the  interim,  &c.  &c. 

Patience,  patience !  Hard  times  I  said,  dearest,  for  literary 
men.  Nevertheless,  let  us  take  them  as  they  come.  Nay,  Allan 
Cunningham  advises  me  that  it  were  almost  ■  ‘  madness  ’  to  press 
forward  a  literary  work  at  this  so  inauspicious  season  and  not  to 
wait  for  a  while — which,  nevertheless,  I  cannot  listen  to.  Why 
wait  ?  Iiusticus  expectat ;  besides,  Dreck  must  be  printed  as  the 
first  condition.  Whether  we  get  any  money  for  him,  or  how  much, 
is  a  quite  secondary  question.  I  have  nothing  for  it  but  to  try — 
try  to  the  uttermost — and  in  the  villanous  interval  of  expectation 
to  explore  this  wild,  immeasurable  chaos,  and  ascertain  whether 
I  can  build  aught  in  it.  Such  remains  my  outlook  hitherto.  Jeff- 

1  I  do  not  know  to  whom  this  refers. 

2  Longman,  after  looking  through  the  MS.,  had  civilly  declined  it. 


Six  Months  in  London . 


151 


r ey  and  I  also  spoke  about  tlie  ‘  place  under  Government.’  Davon 
wird  Nichts ,  ‘  All  filled  up  ;  ’  ‘  Applicants ; ’  ‘Economical  Ministry, ’ 
Ac.  &c. — all  which  the  Devil  is  welcome  to,  if  he  like.  Aide-toi , 
le  del  t' aider  a.  I  think  of  these  things  with  considerable  compos¬ 
ure,  at  times  with  a  certain  silent  ferocity.  ‘  That  my  wife  should 
walk  on  foot !  ’  Yet,  is  she  not  my  wife,  and  shall  I  not  love  her 
the  more  that  she  shares  evil  with  me  as  if  it  were  good  ?  Let  us 
fear  nothing.  I  have  the  strength  of  20,000  Cockneys  while  thou 
art  writh  me.  Let  hard  come  to  hard  as  it  will ;  we  will  study  to 
be  ready  for  it.  .  .  . 

Of  all  the  deplorables  and  despicables  of  this  city  and  time  the 
saddest  are  the  ‘  literary  men.’  Infandum!  Infandum!  It  makes 
my  heart  sick  and  wae.  Except  Churchill,  and  perhaps  chiefly 
because  he  liked  me ,  I  have  hardly  found  a  man  of  common  sense 
or  common  honesty.  They  are  the  Devil’s  own  vermin,  whom  the 
Devil  in  his  good  time  will  snare  and  successively  eat.  The  crea¬ 
ture  - called  again  ;  the  most  insignificant  haddock  in  nature — 

a  dirty,  greasy  cockney  apprentice,  altogether  empty,  and  lion- 
extant  except  for  one  or  two  metaphysical  quibbles  (about  every 
law?-  of  nature  being  an  idea;*  of  the  mind,  &c.),  and  the  completest 
outfit  of  innocent  blank  self-conceit  I  ever  in  life  chanced  to  wit¬ 
ness.  He  is  a  blown  bladder,  wherein  no  substance  is  to  be  sought. 
And  yet  a  curious  figure,  intrinsically  smalt  small ;  yet  with  a 
touch  of  geniality  which  far  apart  from  Coleridge  and  cockneyism 
might  have  made  him  a  small  reality.  God  be  with  him !  He  was 

almost  as  wearisome  as - ,  and  very  much  detached ,  as  it  struck 

me ;  knew  nothing  of  men  or  things  more  than  a  sucking  dove,  at 
thfc  same  time  looked  out  with  an  occasional  gleam  of  geniality  in 
his  eyes ;  seemed  even  to  like  me,  though  I  had  barbarously  enough 
entreated  him. 

The  more  comfortable  was  it  to  meet  Empson  this  morning,  in 
whom  I  at  least  found  sanity ,  and  what  I  have  all  along  had  to 
dispense  with,  the  bearing  of  at  least  a  gentleman.  I  am  glad  I 
went  to  Empson — wrent  through  two  miles  of  tumultuous  streets ; 
found  Empson  in  the  solitude  of  the  Temple,  reading  a  newspaper 
in  a  flannel  nightgown  (which  reminded  me  of  Goody’s,  for  it  had 
a  belt ,  only  it  was  twice  as  large)  ;  a  tail,  broad,  thin  man,  with 
wrinkled  face,  baldisli  head,  and  large  mild  melancholy  dreamy 
blue  eyes  under  bushy  brows.  He  has  a  defect  in  his  trachea ,  and 
can  only  mumble  in  speech,  which  he  does  with  great  copious¬ 
ness  in  a  very  kindly  style,  confused  enough,  at  the  same  time 


152 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


listening  with  the  profonndest  attention  and  toleration  to  what¬ 
ever  you  offer  in  reply.  He  is,  as  I  thought,  on  the  threshold  of 
mysticism,  but  I  think  will  go  deeper.  Probably  enough  one 
might  grow  to  like  such  a  man  ;  at  all  events  I  will  try,  and  so  I 
think  will  you  ;  with  your  mother  (were  she  more  cultivated,  or  he 
more  ignorant)  he  were  the  man  according  to  God's  heart.  Of 
young  Hill  (the  Spirit  of  the  Age  man)  he  speaks  very  highly,  as 
of  a  converted  Utilitarian  who  is  studying  German  ;  so  we  are  all 
to  meet,  along  with  a  certain  Mrs.  Austin,  a  young  Germanist  and 
mutual  intercessor  (between  Mill  and  Empson),  .and  breakfast 
some  day  in  the  Templar’s  lodgings.  Quod  felix  faustumque  sit  ! 
It  does  my  soul  good  to  meet  a  true  soul.  Poor  inexperienced 
Glen  is  the  only  phenomenon  of  that  sort  I  have  yet  seen  here, 
but  I  will  riddle  creation  till  I  find  more.  Thus  before  your  ar¬ 
rival  (if  such  be  our  decision)  I  may  perhaps  have  a  little  pleasant 
circle  to  present  you  to,  for  of  the  old  there  is  very  little  to  be  made  ; 
Irving  alone  stands  true,  and  he  (poor  fellow !)  is  working  mira¬ 
cles,  while  the  Montagus,  Stracheys,  &c.,  have  mostly,  I  fear, 
drifted  quite  to  leeward. 

About  your  journey  to  London  I  myself  know  not  what  to  say. 
The  persuasion  grows  more  and  more  upon  me  that  we  should 
spend  the  winter  here.  Say,  Goody,  would  it  not  be  pleasant  to 
thee  ?  Tell  me  distinctly  ;  and  yet  I  already  know  it  would,  but 
that  (as  beseems  a  good  wife)  you  subordinate  your  wishes  to  the 
common  good,  and  will  not  even  speak  of  them.  Well,  but  here 
in  this  lodging  we  live  actually  (Jack  and  I)  for  some  two  guineas 
a  week ;  or  suppose  in  the  winter  season,  and  with  many  little 
gracefulnesses  which  Goody  would  superadd,  it  cost  us  two — three 
guineas  :  what  then  ?  It  is  little  more  than  we  used  to  spend  in 
Edinburgh  including  rent;  and  we  can  thoroughly  investigate 
London.  I  cannot  promise  you  the  comforts  of  our  own  poor 
Craig  ;  yet  it  is  a  handsome  lodging,  and  with  purely  honest  peo¬ 
ple.  Our  drawing-room  (for  such  it  is)  will  be  of  the  coldest,  I 
doubt ;  but  coals  are  not  so  very  dear,  and  the  female  mind  can 
devise  thicker  clothes.  How  then  ?  shall  it  be  decided  on  ?  We 
have  to  go  somewhither  :  wrhy  not  come  hither ,  where  my  part  of 
the  going  is  already  finished?  Thyself  shalt  say  it.  Use  thy 
prophetic  gift.  If  it  answer  yes,  then  will  I  strive  to  obey. 


To  the  Same. 


September  4. 

Thursday  was  the  wettest  of  wet  days,  even  till  after  bedtime  ; 


Six  Months  in  London. 


153 


tlie  first  day  wherein  I  did  not  once  stir  out  (except  after  dark  to 
Ir  ving’s,  who  was  not  at  home) .  Highgate  and  Coleridge  were  not 
to  be  thought  of.  After  reading  Goody’s  letter,  I  sate  diligently 
over  my  proof-sheets — the  day  un visited  by  any  adventure  except  a 
little  message  from  Mrs.  Austin. 

On  Friday  Jack  and  I  walked  over  to  the  House  of  Lords ;  saw 
the  Chancellor  sitting  between  two  Lords  (two  are  necessary  :  one 
of  them  Earl  Ferrers,  son  of  him  that  was  hanged,  and  the  ugliest 
man  extant,  very  like  David  Laing),  a  considerable  handful  of  lis¬ 
teners  and  loiterers,  and  the  poor  little  darling  (Jeffrey)  with  a 
grey  wig  on  it,  and  queer  coatie  with  bugles  or  buttons  on  the 
cuffs,  snapping  away  and  speaking  there  in  a  foreign  country  among 
entire  strangers.  The  fat  Rutherford  sate  also  within  the  ring,  with 
Dr.  Lusliington  (tlie  divorcer)  and  certain  of  the  clerk  species.  I 
declare  I  was  partly  touched  with  something  of  human  feeling. 
However,  our  little  darling  seemed  as  gleg  as  ever;  the  1  trachea’’ 
in  moderate  order ;  and  was  telling  his  story  like  a  little  king  of 
elves.  Tlie  Chancellor  is  a  very  particularly  ignoble-looking  man ; 
a  face  not  unlike  your  uncle  Robert’s,  but  stonier,  and  with  a 
deeper,  more  restless,  more  dangerous  eye  ;  nothing  but  business 
in  his  face — no  ray  of  genius,  and  even  a  considerable  tincture  of 
insincerity.  He  was  yawning  awfully,  with  an  occasional  twitch¬ 
ing  up  of  the  corners  of  the  upper  lip  and  point  of  the  nose.  A 
politician  truly  and  nothing  more.  Learning  that  the  Duke’s  speech 
would  not  end  for  two  hours,  I  willingly  took  myself  away. 

After  dinner  came  your  letter,  which  I  read  twice;  then  had  tea 
(black  tea  of  my  own)  ;  then  off  to  the  Austins,  where  I  knew  there 
would  be  green  tea,  which  I  had  privately  determined  not  to  have. 
The  Frau  Austin  herself  was  as  loving  as  ever — a  true  Germanised 
spiritual  screamikin.  We  were  five  of  a  party  :  her  husband,  a  lean 
grey-headed  painful-looking  man,  with  large  earnest  timid  eyes 
and  a  clanging  metallic  voice,  that  at  great  length  set  forth  Utili¬ 
tarianism  steeped  in  German  metaphysics,  not  dissolved  therein  ;  a 
very  worthy  sort  of  limited  man  and  professor  of  law.  Secondly, 
a  Frenchman,  of  no  importance  whatever,  for  he  uttered  not  a 
word  except  some  compliments  in  his  own  tongue.  Thirdly,  J ohn 
Mill,  ‘  Spirit-of-tlie-Age.’  The  other  two  you  know  already.  This 
young  Mill,  I  fancy  and  hope,  is  £  a  haying  you  can  love.’  A  slen¬ 
der,  rather  tall  and  elegant  youth,  with  small  clear  Roman-nosed 
face,  two  small  earnestly-smiling  eyes  ;  modest,  remarkably  gifted 
with  precision  of  utterance,  enthusiastic,  yet  lucid,  calm  ;  not  a 


I 


154  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

great,  yet  distinctly  a  gifted  and  amiable  youth.  We  had  almost 
four  hours  of  the  best  talk  I  have  mingled  in  for  long.  The  youth 
walked  home  with  me  almost  to  the  door  ;  seemed  to  profess, 
almost  as  plainly  as  modesty  would  allow,  that  he  had  been  con¬ 
verted  by  the  head  of  the  Mystic  School,  to  whom  personally  he 
testified  very  liearty-looking  regard.  Empson  did  not  appear 
(having  caught  cold,  or  something  of  that  sort),  but  by  letter  (while 
we  were  together)  engaged  Mill  and  me  to  breakfast  with  him  on 
Tuesday.  I  met  poor  Empson  to-day  riding  towards  Holborn,  the 
large  melancholy  eyes  of  the  man  turned  downwards,  so  that  he 
did  not  observe  me.  On  the  whole,  Goodykin,  these  rudiments  of 
a  mystic  school  (better  than  I  anticipated  here)  are  by  far  the 
most  cheering  phenomenon  I  see  in  London.  Good  will  come  of 
it.  Let  us  wait  and  see  in  what  way. 

At  the  Duke’s  this  morning,  where  I  found  Rutherford  and 
Jayme  Relish,  the  Galloway  stot,  who  stared  at  me  as  if  minded 
to  gore,  or  afraid  of  being  gored,  till  I  bowed.  I  was  led  by  his 
lordship  into  a  private  room,  and  there  indulged  with  ten  minutes’ 
private  talk  on  the  subject  of  ‘  Teufelsdrockli.’  The  short  of  it  is 
this :  Murray  will  print  a  short  edition  (750  copies)  of  Dreck  on 
the  half-profits  system  (that  is,  I  getting  nothing,  but  also  giving 
nothing)  ;  after  which  the  sole  copyright  of  the  book  is  to  be 
mine  ;  which  offer  he  makes,  partly  out  of  love  to  ‘  your  lordship  ;  ’ 
chiefly  from  ‘  my  great  opinion  of  the  originality,’  &c.  A  poorish 
offer,  Goody,  yet  perhaps  after  all  the  best  I  shall  get.  Better  con¬ 
siderably  than  my  giving  150/.  for  the  frolic  of  having  written  such 
a  work !  I  mean  to  set  off  to-morrow  morning  to  Colburn  and  Bent¬ 
ley  (whom  Eraser  has  prepared  for  me),  and  ascertain  whether 
they  will  pay  me  anything  for  a  first  edition.  Unless  they  say 
about  100/.  I  will  prefer  Murray.  Murray  wished  me  to  try  every¬ 
where.  You  shall  hear  to-morrow  how  I  speed,  and  then  prophesy 
iqoon  it. 

I  have  this  day  written  off  to  Napier  to  say  that  I  have  an  article 
on  Luther  ready  to  write,  and  ask  whether  he  will  have  it.  Fifty 
pounds  will  be  highly  useful  (thank  God,  not  yet  quite  indispen¬ 
sable),  and  I  can  gain  it  handsomely  in  this  way.  These,  dearest, 
are  all  my  news.  It  is  all  very  wooden,  and  would  be  dull  to  any¬ 
one  but  her  it  is  written  for.  She  will  not  think  it  dull,  but  in¬ 
teresting  as  tile  Epistle  of  a  Paul  to  the  church  which  is  at  Craig 
o’  Putto. 

Monday,  4  o'clock. — I  wras  at  Colburn’s  about  eleven.  After  wait- 


Correspondence  with  Mr.  Murray. 


-f  K  *■* 

loa 

ing  a  weary  hour  in  the  Bentleian  apartments  saw  a  muddy  char¬ 
acter  enter,  to  whom  I  explained  myself  and  Dreck. 1  The  muddy 
man  uttered  the  common  cant  of  compliments,  hinted  at  the  sole 
object  of  publishers  being  money,  the  difference  between  talent 
and  popularity,  &c.  &c.  The  purport  will  be  that  we  shall  have 
nothing  to  do  with  one  another.  So  much  I  could  gather  partly 
from  the  muddy  man.  I  shall  go  over  and  see  Murray  to-morrow 
morning,  and  if  he  will  put  his  hand  to  the  plough  and  get  on 
with  the  printing  forthwith,  I  mean  to  close  with  him  and  have 
done.  The  offer  is  not  so  bad  :  750  copies  for  the  task  of  publish¬ 
ing  poor  Dreck,  and  the  rest  of  him  our  own.  If  he  do  not  suc¬ 
ceed,  how  could  I  ask  any  man  to  do  more  ?  If  he  do,  then  we 
have  opening  for  another  bargain.  Let  us  hope  nothing,  Goody  ; 
then  we  fear  nothing.  By  one  or  the  other  means  our  poor  little 
pot  will  keep  boiling,  and  shall,  though  the  Devil  himself  said 
nay. 

Anticipating  slightly,  I  may  finish  here  the  adventures 
of  6  Sartor 5  or  Dreck,  and  for  the  present  have  done  with 
it.  Murray  at  Jeffrey's  instance  had  agreed  to  take  the 
book  on  the  terms  which  Carlyle  mentioned — not,  how¬ 
ever,  particularly  willingly.  Jeffrey  himself,  who  had 
good  practical  knowledge  of  such  things,  thought  that  it 
‘was  too  much  of  the  nature  of  a  rhapsody  to  command 
success  or  respectful  attention.’  Murray  perhaps  rather 
wished  to  attach  to  himself  a  young  man  of  unquestion¬ 
able  genius,  whose  works  might  be  profitable  hereafter, 
than  expected  much  from  this  immediate  enterprise.  He 
decided  to  run  the  risk,  however.  The  MS.  was  sent  to 
the  printer,  and  a  page  was  set  in  type  for  consideration, 
when  poor  Murray,  already  repenting  of  what  he  had  done, 
heard  that  while  he  was  hesitating  ‘  Sartor  ’  had  been  offered 
to  Longman,  and  had  been  declined  by  him.  lie  snatched 
at  the  escape,  and  tried  to  end  his  bargain.  lie  professed 
to  think,  and  perhaps  he  really  thought,  that  he  had  been 
treated  unfairly.  The  correspondence  that  ensued  must 
have  made  Murray  more  and  more  wonder  what  strange 

J  s 

1  Neither  Colburn  nor  Bentley  in  person,  as  appeared  after. 


15(3 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

being  lie  was  in  contact  with,  and  may  be  preserved  as  a 
curiosity. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle ,  Esq. 

Ramsgate :  September  17. 

Dear  Sir, — Your  conversation  with  me  respecting  the  publica¬ 
tion  of  your  MS.  led  me  to  infer  that  you  had  given  me  the  prefer¬ 
ence,  and  certainly  not  that  you  had  already  submitted  it  to  the 
greatest  publishers  in  London,  who  had  declined  to  engage  in  it. 
Under  these  circumstances  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  also  to  get 
it  read  by  some  literary  friend  before  I  can  in  justice  to  myself 
engage  in  the  printing  of  it. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Your  faithful  servant, 

John  Murray. 

The  apparent  reflection  on  a  want  of  sincerity  in  •  Car¬ 
lyle  was  not  altogether  generous  on  Murray’s  part,  but 
perhaps  only  too  natural. 

Carlyle  answers : — 

To  John  Murray,  Esq. 

Sir, — I  am  this  moment  favoured  with  your  note  of  the  17th 
from  Ramsgate,  and  beg  to  say  in  reply — • 

First,  that  your  idea  derived  from  conversation  with  me  of  my 
giving  you  the  preference  to  all  other  publishers  was  perfectly 
correct :  I  had  heard  you  described  as  a  man  of  honour,  frank¬ 
ness,  and  even  generosity,  and  knew  you  to- have  the  best  and 
widest  connections ;  on  which  grounds  I  might  well  say  and  can 
still  well  say  that  a  transaction  with  you  would  please  me  better 
than  a  similar  one  with  any  other  member  of  the  trade. 

Secondly,  that  your  information  of  my  having  submitted  my 
manuscript  to  the  greatest  publishers  in  London,  if  you  mean 
thereby  that  after  it  first  came  out  of  your  hands  it  lay  two  days 
in  those  of  Messrs.  Longman  and  Rees,  and  was  from  them  deliv¬ 
ered  over  to  the  Lord  Advocate,  is  also  perfectly  correct.  If  you 
mean  anything  else,  incorrect. 

Thirdly,  that  if  you  wish* the  bargain  which  I  had  understood 
myself  to  have  made  with  you  unmade,  you  have  only  to  cause 
your  printer  who  is  now  working  on  my  manuscript  to  return  the 
same  without  danger  or  delay,  and  consider  the  business  as  fin¬ 
ished. 


157 


Correspondence  with  Mr.  Murray. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Albemarle  Street :  Wednesday. 

My  dear  Sir, — Had  I  been  informed  that  during  the  interval  in 
wJiich  I  had  returned  the  MS.  to  you  it  had  been  offered  to 
Messrs.  Longman  and  sent  back  after  remaining  with  them  two 
days,  I  certainly  should  have  requested  permission  to  have  had  it 
left  to  me  for  perusal  before  I  determined  upon  its  publication, 
and  I  only  wish  to  be  placed  in  the  same  position  as  I  should 
have  been  had  I  been  previously  informed  of  that  fact. 

I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Your  obliged  servant, 

John  Murray. 

Rough  Draft  of  Reply. 

Sir, — Though  I  cannot  well  discover  what  damage  or  alteration 
my  MS.  has  sustained  by  passing  through  the  hands  of  Messrs. 
Longman  and  Rees,  I  with  great  readiness  enter  into  your  views, 
and  shall  cheerfully  release  you  from  all  engagement  or  shadow 
of  engagement  with  me  in  regard  to  it,  the  rather  as  it  seems 
reasonable  for  me  to  expect  some  higher  remuneration  for  a  work 
that  has  caused  me  so  much  effort,  were  it  once  fairly  examined. 
Such  remuneration  as  was  talked  of  between  us  can,  I  believe,  at 
all  times  be  procured. 

Perhaps  you  could  now  fix  some  date  at  which  I  might  look  for 
your  decision  on  a  quite  new  negotiation,  if  you  incline  to  engage 
in  such.  I  shall  then  see  whether  the  limited  extent  of  my  time 
will  still  allow  me  to  wait  yours. 

If  not,  pray  have  the  goodness  to  cause  my  papers  to  be  re¬ 
turned  with  the  least  possible  delay. 

The  result  was  the  letter  from  the  4  bookseller,’  enclos¬ 
ing  the  critical  communication  from  his  literary  adviser, 
which  Carlyle  with  pardonable  malice  attached  as  an  Ap¬ 
pendix  to  6  Sartor  ’  when  it  was  ultimately  published,  and 
which  has  been  thus  preserved  as  a  singular  evidence  of 
critical  fallibility.  But  neither  is  Murray  to  be  blamed  in 
the  matter  nor  his  critic.  Their  business  was  to  ascertain 
whether  the  book,  if  published,  would  pay  for  the  print¬ 
ing  ;  and  it  was  quite  certain,  both  that  the  taste  which 


158 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


could  appreciate  Carlyle  did  not  exist  till  he  himself 
created  it,  and  that  to  6  Sartor,’  beautiful  and  brilliant  as 
it  now  seems,  the  world  would  then  have  remained  blind. 
Carlyle  himself,  proud,  scornful,  knowing  if  no  one  else 
knew  the  value  of  the  estimate  ‘  of  the  gentleman  in  the 
highest  class  of  men  of  letters’  who  had  been  consulted 
in  the  matter,  judged  Murray  after  his  fashion  far  too 
harshly.  In  a  letter  to  his  wife  he  says : — 

The  printing  of  ‘  Teufelsdrockh,’  which  I  announced  as  com¬ 
mencing,  and  even  sent  you  a  specimen  of,  has  altogether  stopped, 
and  Murray’s  bargain  with  me  has  burst  into  air.  The  man  be¬ 
haved  like  a  pig,  and  was  speared,  not  perhaps  without  art ;  Jack 
and  I  at  least  laughed  that  night  d  gorge  deploy  ee  at  the  answer  I 
wrote  his  base  glare  of  a  letter  :  he  has  written  again  in  much  po¬ 
liter  style,  and  I  shall  answer  him,  as  McLeod  advised  my  grand¬ 
father’s  people,  ‘sharp  but  mannerly.’  The  truth  of  the  matter 
is  now  clear  enough ;  Dreck  cannot  be  disposed  of  in  London  at 
this  time.  "Whether  he  lie  in  my  trunk  or  in  a  bookseller’s  cof¬ 
fer  seems  partly  indifferent.  Neither,  on  the  whole,  do  I  know 
whether  it  is  not  better  that  we  have  stopped  for  the  present. 
Money  I  was  to  have  none ;  author’s  vanity  embarked  on  that 
bottom  I  have  almost  none  ;  nay,  some  time  or  other  that  the  book 
can  be  so  disposed  of  it  is  certain  enough. 

Carlyle  was  not  alone  in  his  contempt  for  the  existing 
literary  taste.  Macvey  Napier,  to  whom  he  had  expressed 
an  opinion  that  the  public  had  been  for  some  time  ‘  fed 
with  froth,’  and  was  getting  tired  of  it,  agreed  that  ‘  lie 
saw  no  indication  in  that  vast  body  of  any  appetite  for 
solid  aliments.’  May,  he  added  (and  the  words  deserve 
to  be  remarked),  6  I  am  thoroughly  convinced  that  were 
another  Gibbon  to  appear  and  produce  another  such  work 
as  the  “  Decline  and  Fall,”  the  half  of  an  impression  of 
750  copies  would  be  left  to  load  the  shelves  of  its  pub¬ 
lisher.’ 

The  article  on  Luther  which  Carlyle  had  offered  for  the 
‘  Edinburgh  ’  could  not  get  itself  accepted.  Mapier  recog- 


4  Characteristics .’ 


159 


nised  that  Luther  was  a  noble  subject,  but  he  could  not 
spare  space  for  the  effective  treatment  of  it.  He  recom¬ 
mended  instead  a  review  of  Thomas  Hope’s  book  on  Man  ; 
and  Carlyle,  accepting  the  change,  made  Hope  the  text  for 
the  paper  which  he  called  4  Characteristics.’  This  essay, 
more  profound  and  far-reaching  even  than  4  Sartor,’  was 
written  in  these  autumn  weeks  in  London. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


A.D.  1831.  2ET.  30. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  had  entered  eagerly  into  the  scheme  for 
joining  her  husband  in  London.  Six  weeks’  solitude  at 
Craigenputtock,  with  strangers  now  in  occupation  of  the 
farm,  had  tried  even  her  fortitude  beyond  her  strength, 
and  Alick  and  Jean  Carlyle  had  gone  from  Scotsbrig  to 
take  care  of  her. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsb?’ig. 

Craigenputtock  :  September,  1831. 

A  thousand  thanks,  my  dear  kind  mother,  for  sending  Jean  and 
Alick  to  my  rescue.  If  some  such  mercy  had  not  been  vouchsafed 
me  I  think  I  must  soon  have  worked  myself  into  a  fever  or  other 
violent  disorder  ;  for  my  talent  for  fancying  things,  which  is  quite 
as  great  as  your  own,  had  so  entirely  got  the  upper  hand  of  me 
that  I  could  neither  sleep  by  night  nor  rest  by  day.  I  have  slept 
more,  since  they  came  and  have  kept  me  from  falling  into  dreams, 
than  I  had  done  for  a  fortnight  before. 

I  have  new's,  if  you  have  not  heard  it  already,  more  joyful  to 
me,  I  suspect,  than  to  you :  I  am  going  to  my  husband,  and  as 
soon  as  I  can  get  ready  for  leaving.  Now  do  not  grieve  that  he  is 
not  to  return  so  soon  as  we  expected.  I  am  sure  it  is  for  his  good, 
and,  therefore,  for  all  our  goods.  Here  he  was  getting  more  and 
more  unhappy,  more  and  more  dissatisfied  with  the  world  and 
himself.  I  durst  not  have  counselled  him  to  such  a  step ;  but 
whenever  he  proposed  it  himself,  I  cordially  approved.  But  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  this  and  other  matters  when  I  come  and  see 
you  all  again  before  I  set  out. 

Carlyle  wants  me  to  bring  some  butter,  oatmeal,  <fcc.,  which  are 
not  to  be  got  good  in  London  for  love  or  money,  and  without  the 
smallest  remorse  I  apply  to  you  to  help  me.  I  have  some  butter 


Six  Months  in  London . 


161 


of  our  own  cows ;  but  as  it  lias  been  salted  in  small  quantities, 
sometimes  in  warm  weather  and  by  my  own  hands,  which  are  not 
the  most  expert,  I  am  afraid  it  will  not  be  good  enough;  at  all 
rates,  inferior  to  the  Scotsbrig  thing. 

Jean  is  going  with  me  to  Templand  to-day,  as  a  sort  of  protec¬ 
tion  against  my  mother’s  agitations.  Next  week  she  will  help  me 
to  pack. 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

Carlyle,  meanwhile,  continued  his  account  of  himself  in 
his  letters.  Napier  had  not  then  written  conclusively 
about  his  article,  and  he  was  restless. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Craigenputtock. 

London  :  September  11. 

My  days  flow  rather  uselessly  along.  If  Naso  do  not  write  soon 
I  will  seek  some  other  task,  were  it  the  meanest.  No  one  can  force 
you  to  be  idle,  but  only  yourself.  Neither  is  the  world  shut  against 
anyone  ;  but  it  is  he  that  is  shut.  God  grant  us  some  little  touch 
of  wisdom ;  let  Fate  turn  up  what  card  she  likes,  so  we  can  play 
i;  well.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  yet  much  to  suffer,  but  also  something 
to  do.  Do  tliou  help  me,  my  little  woman ;  thou  art  worthy  of 
that  destiny,  and  perhaps  it  is  appointed  thee.  These  are  fearful 
times,  yet  is  there  greatness  in  them.  Now  is  the  hour  when  ho 
that  feels  himself  a  man  should  stand  forth  and  prove  himself 
such.  Oh,  could  I  but  live  in  the  light  of  that  holy  purpose  and 
keep  it  ever  present  before  me,  I  were  happy — too  happy ! 

Meanwhile,  unfortunately  for  these  many  months,  and  now  as 
formerly,  I  am  rather  wicked.  Alas  !  Why  should  I  dwell  in  the 
element  of  contempt  and  indignation,  not  rather  in  that  of  patience 
and  love  ?  I  was  reading  in  Luther’s  i  Tischreden,’  and  absolutely 
felt  ashamed.  What  have  I  suffered  ?  What  did  he  suffer  ?  One 
should  actually,  as  Irving  advises,  ‘  pray  to  the  Lord,’  did  one  but 
know  how  to  do  it.  The  best  worship,  however,  is  stout  working. 
Frisch  zu  ! 

I  have  not  seen  the  Duke  for  a  week.  I  acknowledge  in  myself 
a  certain  despicable  tendency  to  think  crabbedly  of  the  poor 
Duke  :  a  quite  vulgar  feeling  it  is.  Merely  as  if  he  were  not  kind 
enough  to  one.  Is  he  not  kinder  than  most  other  men  are  ?  Shame 
on  me !  Out  of  various  motives,  among  which  love  is  not  wholly 
VOL.  II.— 11 


162 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


wanting,  he  really  wishes  to  do  me  good.  Are  not  all  others  of 
his  order  indifferent  to  me  ?  Should  not  he  be  at  all  times  move 
and  not  less  ?  Yet  his  path  is  not  my  path,  nor  are  his  thoughts 
my  thoughts.  It  is  more  and  more  clear  to  me  that  we  shall  never 
do  any  good  together.  Let  him  come  and  sit  with  you  in  that 
‘  flowerpot  tub,’  if  he  like  ;  let  us  do  him  what  kindness  we  can, 
which  is  not  much,  and  stand  ever  with  kind  looks  in  that  direc¬ 
tion,  yet  always,  too,  on  our  side  of  the  Strand.  Frivolous  gig- 
manity  cannot  unite  itself  to  our  stern  destiny  ;  let  it  pass  by  on 
the  other  side.  But  oh,  my  dear  Jeannie,  do  help  me  to  be  a  lit¬ 
tle  softer,  to  be  a  little  merciful  to  all  men,  even  gigmen.  Why. 
should  a  man,  though  bilious,  never  so  ‘  nervous,’  impoverished, 
bugbitten,  and  bedevilled,  let  Satan  have  dominion  over  him  ? 
Save  me,  save  me,  my  Goody  !  It  is  on  this  side  that  I  am  threat¬ 
ened  ;  nevertheless  we  will  prevail,  I  tell  thee  :  by  God’s  grace  we 
will  and  shall. 

September  14. 

On  Monday  night  I  walked  round  from  putting  in  your  letter 
and  borrowed  me  the  last  ‘  Quarterly  Review, ’  to  read  the  article 
there  on  the  Saint  Simonians,  by  Southey ;  it  is  an  altogether  mis¬ 
erable  article,  written  in  the  spirit  not  of  a  philosopher  but  of  a 
parish  precentor.  He  knows  what  they  are  not ,  so  far  at  least  as 
the  Thirty-nine  Articles  go  ;  but  nothing  whatsoever  of  what  they 
are.  ‘  My  brother,  I  say  unto  thee,  thou  art  a  poor  creature.’  The 
rest  of  the  ‘  Review  ’  is  also  despicable  enough — blind,  shovel- 
hatted,  hysterically  lachrymose.  Lockhart,  it  seems,  edits  it  out 
of  Roxburghshire,  rusticating  by  some  ‘  burn  ’  in  that  country. 
Tuesday  night  John  Mill  came  in  and  sate  talking  with  me  till 
near  eleven — a  fine  clear  enthusiast,  who  will  one  day  come  to 
something  ;  yet  to  nothing  poetical,  I  think  :  his  fancy  is  not  rich  ; 
furthermore,  he  cannot  laugh  with  any  compass.  You  will  like 
Mill.  Glen  1  is  a  man  of  greatly  more  natural  material ;  but  hith¬ 
erto  he  is  like  a  blind  Cyclops,  ill  educated,  yet  capable  of  good 
education  ;  he  may  perhaps  reap  great  profit  from  us. 

Edward  Irving  is  graver  than  usual,  yet  has  still  the  old  faculty 
of  laughter ;  on  the  whole,  a  true  sufficient  kind  of  man,  very  anx¬ 
ious  to  have  me  stay  here,  where  ‘  in  two  years  or  so  ’  I  should  not 

1  ‘  Glen,  who  was  mentioned  before,  was  a  young  graduate  of  Glasgow  study¬ 
ing  law  in  London,  of  very  considerable  though  utterly  confused  talent.  Ulti¬ 
mately  went  mad,  and  was  boarded  in  a  farmhouse  near  Craigenputtock, 
within  reach  of  us,  where  in  seven  or  eight  years  he  died. — T.  C.’ 


Six  Months  in  London. 


163 


fail  to  find  some  appointment.  "What  I  lament  is  that  such  a 
mind  should  not  be  in  the  van,  but  wilfully  standing  in  the  rear, 
bringing  up  the  tagrag  and  bobtail,  however  well  he  do  it.  ‘  Mira¬ 
cles  ’  are  the  commonest  things  in  the  world  here.  Irving  said  to 
Glen,  ‘  When  I  work  miracles.’  He  and  I  have'  never  fastened 
upon  that  topic  yet,  but  by-and-by  he  shall  hear  my  whole  mind 
on  it,  for  he  deserves  such  confidence. 

I  gave  your  compliments  to  Empson,  who  received  them  with 
wreathed  smiles  and  mumbles  of  heartiest  welcome.  I  think  you 
will  like  him — a  bushy-faced  kind-looking  creature  with  most 
melancholy  short-sighted  eyes.  He  is  from  Lincolnshire  ;  walks 
much,  I  take  it,  with  women,  men  being  too  harsh  and  contra¬ 
dictory  with  him.  He  was  sitting  in  yellow  nightgown,  without 
neckcloth,  shaggy  enough,  and  writing  with  his  whole  might  for 
Naso  (Napier). 

Of  Macaulay  I  hear  nothing  very  good — a  sophistical,  rhetor¬ 
ical,  ambitious  young  man  of  talent ;  ‘  set  in  there,’  as  Mill  said, 
‘  to  make  flash  speeches,  and  he  makes  them.’  It  seems  to  me  of 
small  consequence  whether  we  meet  at  all. 


To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

September  19,  1831. 

My  dear  Mother, — .  .  .  Jane  will  have  told  you  how  languidly 
everything  proceeds  wTitli  me — how  the  ‘  people  are  all  out  of 
town,’  everything  stagnating  because  of  this  Reform  Bill,  the 
book  trade  in  particular  nearly  altogether  at  a  standstill,  and 
lastly,  how  I,  as  the  best  thing  I  could  do,  have  been  obliged  to 
give  my  poor  book  away  (that  is,  the  first  edition  of  it),1  and  am 
even  glad  to  see  it  printed  on  these  terms.  This  is  not  very  fiats 
tering  news  of  the  encouragement  for  men  of  my  craft ;  neverthe¬ 
less,  I  study  to  say  with  as  much  cheerfulness  as  I  can,  Be  it  so  ! 
The  Giver  of  all  Good  has  enabled  me  to  write  the  thing,  and  also 
to  do  without  any  pay  for  it :  the  pay  would  have  been  wasted 
away  and  flitted  out  of  the  bit  as  other  pay  does ;  but  if  there 
stand  any  truth  recorded  there,  it  will  not  ‘flit.’  Nay,  if  there  be 
even  no  truth  (as  where  is  the  man  that  can  say  with  confidence 
the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  has  given  me  understanding),  yet 
it  was  the  nearest  approach  to  such  that  I  could  make ;  and  so  in 
God’s  name  let  it  take  its  fortune  in  the  world,  and  sink  or  swim 

1  This  was  written  a  day  or  two  before  the  final  collapse  with  Murray. 


104:  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

*  i.  ** 


as  the  All-disposer  orders.  There  remains  for  ever  the  maxim, 
‘  In  all  thv  wavs  acknowledge  Him.’ 

I  am  earnestly  expecting  Jane,  that  some  sort  of  establishment 
may  be  formed  here,  where  we  can  spend  the  winter  with  more 
regularity  and  composure  than  I  have  hitherto  enjoyed.  Then  we 
can  look  about  us  over  this  whirlpool,  and  I.  in  the  meantime,  shall 
most  probably  write  some  considerable  essay  for  the  ‘Edinburgh 
Review,’  that  so,  when  we  return,  Mall  may  not  be  altogether  out  of 
sJiaf'ts.  Of  any  permanent  appointment  here  I  as  yet  see,  with  my 
own  eyes,  not  the  slightest  outlook :  neither,  indeed,  is  my  heart 
set  on  such,  for  I  feel  that  the  King's  palace  with  all  it  holds 
would  in  good  truth  do  little  for  me  ;  and  the  prayer  I  ever  en¬ 
deavour  to  make  is.  *  Show  me  my  duty,  aud  enable  me  to  do  it.’ 
If  mv  du tv  be  to  endure  a  life  of  povertv  and  what  ‘light  anhe- 
turns’  attend  on  it,  this  also  will  not  terrify  me. 

Meanwhile,  I  am  not  without  my  comforts:  one  of  the  greatest 
of  which  is  to  have  found  various  well-disposed  men,  most  of 
them  young  men,  who  can  feel  a  sort  of  scholarship  towards  me. 
Mv  poor  performances  in  the  writing  way  are  bettor  known  here 


than  I  expected :  clearly  enough,  also,  there  is  want  of  instruction 
and  light  in  this  mirk  midnight  of  human  affairs :  such  want  as 
probably  for  eighteen  hundred  years  there  has  not  been.  If  I 
have  any  light  to  give  them,  let  me  give  it :  if  none,  then  what  is 
to  be  done  but  seek  for  it.  and  hold  my  peace  till  I  find  it. 


To  Mrs.  Car  foie.  Liverpool.1 

London :  September  CS, 

My  poor  Goody, — All  yesterday  my  thoughts  were  with  thee  in 
thy  lone  voyage,  which  now  1  pray  the  great  Giver  of  Good  may 
have  terminated  prosperously.  Never  before  did  I  so  well  under¬ 
stand  mv  mother's  anxious  forecasting  ways.  1  felt  that  mv  best 
possession  was  trusted  to  the  false  sea,  and  all  my  cares  for  it 
could  avail  nothing.  Bo  not  wait  a  moment  in  writing.  I  shall 

have  no  peace  till  I  know  that  you  are  safe.  Meanwhile,  in  truth 

there  is  no  use  in  tormenting  mvself :  the  weather,  here  at  least, 
was  good.  I  struggle  while  I  can  to  believe  that  it  has  all  passed 
without  accident,  and  that  you  are  now  resting  in  comparative 
safetv  in  vour  uncle’s  house  among  friends. 

*  *  V 

Of  rest  I  can  well  understand  vou  have  need  enough.  I  grieve 

1  His  wife  had  gone  by  water  front  Annan  to  her  uncle's  house  at  Liver¬ 
pool  :  from  thence  to  proceed  by  coach  to  London. 


Six  Months  in  London. 


165 


to  think  how  harassed  yon  have  been  of  late,  all  which,  I  fear,  has 
acted  badly  on  your  health ;  these  bustlings  and  tossings  to  and 
fro  are  far  too  rough  work  for  you.  I  can  see,  by  your  two  last 
letters  especially,  that  it  is  not  well  with  you  ;  your  heart  is,  as  it 
were,  choked  up,  if  not  depressed.  You  are  agitated  and  pro¬ 
voked,  which  is  almost  the  worse  way  of  the  two.  Alas  !  and  I 
have  no  soft  Aladdin’s  Palace  here  to  bid  von  hasten  and  take  re- 

v 

pose  in.  Nothing  but  a  noisy,  untoward  lodging-house,  and  no 
better  shelter  than  my  own  bosom.  Yret  is  not  this  the  best  of  all 
shelters  for  you  ?  the  only  safe  place  in  this  wide  world  ?  Thank 
God,  this  still  is  yours,  and  I  can  receive  you  there  without  dis¬ 
trust,  and  wrap  you  close  with  the  solacements  of  a  true  heart’s 
love.  Hasten  thither,  then,  my  own  wife.  Betide  what  mav,  we 
will  not  despair,  were  the  world  never  so  unfriendly.  We  are  in¬ 
divisible,  and  will  help  each  other  to  endure  its  evils,  nay  to  con¬ 
quer  them. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  arrived  in  London  on  tlie  first  of  October, 
a  good  deal  shattered  by  the  journey  and  the  charge  of 
the  miscellaneous  cargo  of  luggage  which  she  had  brought 
with  her :  oatmeal,  hams,  butter,  Ac.,  supplied  by  the 
generous  Scotsbrig  to  lighten  the  expense  of  the  London 
winter.  George  Irving’s  lodgings,  being  found  to  contain 
bugs,  were -exchanged  for  others.  John  Carlyle  departed 
with  Lady  Clare  for  Italy.  Carlyle  and  his  wife  cpiartered 
themselves  at  Ampton  Street,  turning  out  of  Gray’s  Inn 
Hoad,  where  they  had  two  comfortable  rooms  in  the  house 
of  an  excellent  family  named  Miles,  who  belonged  to  Ir¬ 
ving’s  congregation.  Here  friends  came  to  see  them  :  Mill, 
Empson,  later  on  Leigh  -Hunt,  drawn  by  the  article  on 
Hope  (‘  Characteristics  ’)  which  Carlyle  was  now  assidu¬ 
ously  writing,  Jeffrey,  and  afterwards  many  more,  the 
Carlyles  going  out  into  society,  and  reconnoitring  literary 
London.  Mrs.  Carlyle  in  her  way  was  as  brilliant  as  her 
husband  was  in  his  own  ;  she  attracting  every  one,  he 
wondered  at  as  a  prodigy,  which  the  world  was  yet  uncer¬ 
tain  whether  it  was  to  love  or  execrate. 

Carlyle’s  4  Journal  ’  tells  us  generally  what  was  passing 


1GG 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

within  him  and  round  him,  how  London  affected  him,  &c. 
Ilis  and  Mrs.  Carlyle's  letters  fill  out  the  picture. 

'Extracts  f  rom  Journal. 

October  10. — Wife  arrived  ten  days  ago.  We  here  quietly 
enough  in  4  Ampton  Street,  and  the  world  jogging  on  at  the  old 
raxe.  Jack  must  be  by  this  time  in  Pails.  ‘  Tenfelsdrockh,’  after 
various  perplexed  destinies,  returned  to  me,  and  now  lying  safe  in 
his  box.  The  book  contents  me  little  ;  yet  perhaps  there  is  ma¬ 
terial  in  it  :  in  anv  case,  I  did  mv  best. 

tr  • 

The  Reform  Bill  lost  (on  Saturday  morning  at  six  o’clock)  by  a 
majority  of  forty-one.  The  politicians  will  have  it  the  people  must 
rise.  The  people  will  do  nothing  half  so  foolish — for  the  present. 
London  seems  altogether  quiet.  Here  they  are  afraid  of  Scotland, 
in  Scotland  of  us. 

On  Saturday  saw  Sir  James  Mackintosh  (at  Jeffrey’s),  and 
looked  at  and  listened  to  him,  though  without  speech.  A  broad- 
ish,  middle-sized,  grey-headed  man,  well-dressed,  and  with  a  plain 
courteous  bearing;  grey  intelligent  .unhealthy  yellow-whited) 
eyes,  in  which  plays  a  dash  of  cautious  vivacity  (uncertain  whether 
fear  or  latent  ire.),  triangular  unmeaning  nose,  business  mouth  and 
chin  ;  on  the  whole,  a  sensible  official  air,  not  without  a  due  spic¬ 
ing  of  hypocrisy  and  something  of  pedantry,  both  no  doubt  in¬ 
voluntary.  The  man  is  a  Whig  philosopher  and  politician,  such 
as  the  time  yields,  our  best  of  that  sort,  which  will  soon  be  ex¬ 
tinct.  He  was  talking  mvsteriouslv  with  other  ‘Hon.  Members’ 
about  ‘  what  was  to  be  done  ’ — something  d  la  Dogberry  the  thing 
looked  to  me,  though  I  deny  not  that  it  is  a  serious  conjuncture, 
only  believe  that  change  has  some  chance  to  be  for  the  better,  and 
so  see  it  all  with  composure. 

Meanwhile,  ichat  was  the  true  duty  of  a  man?  Were  it  to  stand 
utterly  aloof  from  politics  not  ephemeral  only,  for  that  of  course, 
but  generally  from  all  speculation  about  social  systems,  Ac.),  or  is 
not  perhaps  the  very  want 'of  this  time  an  infinite  want  of  Gov¬ 
ernors,  of  knowledge  how  to  govern  itself?  Canst  thou  in  any 
measure  spread  abroad  reverence  over  the  hearts  of  men  ?  That 
were  a  far  higher  task  than  any  other.  Is  it  to  be  done  by  art  ? 
or  are  men’s  minds  as  yet  shut  to  art,  and  open  only  at  best  to 


Six  Months  in  London. 


167 


✓ 


oratory?  not  fit  for  a  Jfeister,  but  only  for  a  bettor  and  better  Ten - 
felsdrockh  f  Think  and  be  silent. 

‘Mary  YTollstonecraft’s  Life,’  by  Godwin.  An  Ariel  imprisoned 
in  a  brickbat !  It  is  a  real  tragedy  and  of  the  deepest.  Sublimely 
yirtuons  endowment;  in  practice,  misfortune,  suffering,  death 
.  .  .  by  destiny,  and  also  by  desert.  An  English  Mignon  :  God- 
win  an  lionest  boor  that  loyes  her,  but  cannot  guide  or  saye  her. 

X 

Strange  tendency  everywhere  noticeable  to  speculate  on  men, 
not  on  man.  Another  branch  of  the  mechanical  temper.  Vain 
hojje  to  make  mankind  happy  by  politics  !  You  cannot  drill  a  regi¬ 
ment  of  knaves  into  a  regiment  of  honest  men,  enregiment  and* 
organise  them  as  cunningly  as  you  will.  Give  us  the  honest  men, 
and  the  well-ordered  regiment  comes  of  itself.  Reform  one  man 
— reform  thy  own  inner  man  ;  it  is  more  than  scheming  out  re¬ 
forms  for  a  nation. 

John  told  me  of  having  seen  in  Holbom  a  man  walking  steadily 
along  with  some  six  baskets  all  piled  above  each  other,  his  name 
and  address  written  in  large  characters  on  each,  so  that  he  exhib¬ 
ited  a  statue  of  some  twelve  feet,  and  so  by  the  six  separate  an¬ 
nouncements  had  his  existence  sufficiently  proclaimed.  The  trade 
of  this  man  was  basket-making ;  but  he  had  found  it  needful  to 
study  a  quite  new  trade — that  of  walking  with  six  baskets  on  his 
head  in  a  crowded  street. 

In  like  manner  Colburn  and  Bentley,  the  booksellers,  are  known 

v  *  J 

to  expend  ten  thousand  pounds  annually  on  what  they  call  adver¬ 
tising,  more  commonly  called  puffing.  Puffing  (which  is  simply 
the  second  trade,  like  that  of  basket-carrying)  flourishes  in  all 
countries  ;  but  London  is  the  true  scene  of  it,  having  this  one 
quality  beyond  all  other  cities — a  quite  immeasurable  size.  It  is 
rich  also,  stupid,  and  ignorant  beyond  example ;  thus  in  all  re¬ 
spects  the  true  Goshen  of  quacks. 

Every  man  I  meet  with  mourns  over  this  state  of  matters  ;  no 

V 

one  thinks  it  remediable.  You  must  do  as  the  others  do,  or  they 
will  get  the  start  of  you  or  tread  you  under  foot.  ‘  All  true,  Mr. 
Carlyle  but’  :  I  sav,  ‘All  true,  Mr.  Carlvle  axt>.’  The  first  begin- 
ning  of  a  remedy  is  that  some  one  believe  a  remedy  possible  ;  be¬ 
lieve  that  if  he  cannot  live  by  truth,  then  he  can  die  by  it.  Dost 
thou  believe  it?  Then, is  the  new  era  begun  ! 


1G8 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


How  men  are  hurried  here  ;  how  they  are  hunted  and  terrifically 
chased  into  double-quick  speed ;  so  that  in  self-defence  they  must 
not  stay  to  look  at  one  another  !  Miserable  is  the  scandal-mongery 
and  evil  speaking  of  the  country  population  :  more  frightful  still 
the  total  ignorance  and  mutual  heedlessness  of  these  poor  souls  in 
jiopulous  city  pent.  ‘  Each  passes  on  quick,  transient,  regarding 
not  the  other  or  his  woes.’  Each  must  button  himself  together, 
and  take  no  thought  (not  even  for  evil)  of  his  neighbour.  There 
in  their  little  cells,  divided  by  partitions  of  brick  or  board,  they 
sit  strangers,  unknowing,  unknown,  like  passengers  in  some  huge 
ship  ;  each  within  his  own  cabin.  Alas  !  and  the  ship  is  life  ;  and 
the  voyage  is  from  eternity  to  eternity. 

Everywhere  there  is  the  most  crying  want  of  government,  a  true 
all-ruining  anarchy.  No  one  has  any  knowledge  of  London,  in 
which  he  lives.  It  is  a  huge  aggregate  of  little  systems,  each  of 
which  is  again  a  small  anarchy,  the  members  of  which  do  not  work 
together,  but  scramble  against  each  other.  The  soul  (what  can  be 
properly  called  the  soul)  lies  dead  in  the  bosom  of  man ;  starting 
out  in  mad,  ghastly  niglit-walkings — e.g.  the  gift  of  tongues.  Ig¬ 
norance  eclipses  all  things  with  its  owlet  wings.  Man  walks  he 
knows  not  whither  ;  walks  and  wanders  till  he  walks  into  the  jaws 
of  death,  and  is  then  devoured.  Nevertheless,  God  is  in  it.  Here, 
even  here,  is  the  revelation  of  the  Infinite  in  the  Finite ;  a  majes¬ 
tic  poem  (tragic,  comic,  or  epic),  couldst  thou  but  read  it  or  recite 
it !  Watch  it  then  ;  study  it,;  catch  the  secret  of  it ;  and  proclaim 
the  same  in  such  accent  as  is  given  thee.  Alas !  the  spirit  is  will¬ 
ing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak. 

On  Thursday  night  last  (this  is  Monday),  the  28th  of  October, 
dined  with  Fonblanque,  editor  of  the  ‘Examiner.’  An  honourable 
Radical ;  might  be  something  better.  London  bred.  Limited  by 
education  more  than  by  nature.  Something  metallic  in  the  tone 
of  his  voice  (like  that  of  Professor  Austin).  For  the  rest,  a  tall, 
loose,  lank-haired,  wrinkly,  wintry,  vehement-looking  flail  of  a 
man.  I  reckon  him  the  best  of  the  fourth  estate  now  extant  in 
Britain.  Shall  see  him  again. 

Allan  Cunningham  with  us  last  night.  Jane  calls  him  a  genu¬ 
ine  Dumfriesshire  mason  still ;  and  adds  that  it  is  delightful  to 
see  a  genuine  man  of  any  sort.  Allan  was,  as  usual,  full  of  Scot¬ 
tish  anecdotic  talk.  Bight  by  instinct ;  has  no  principles  or  creed 


Six  Months  in  London. 


169 


that  I  can  see,  but  excellent  old  Scottish  habits  of  character.  An 
interesting  man. 

Walter  Scott  left  town  yesterday  on  his  way  to  Naples.  He  is 
to  proceed  from  Plymouth  in  a  frigate,  which  the  Government 
have  given  him  a  place  in.  Much  run  after  here,  it  seems  ;  but  he 
is  old  and  sick,  and  cannot  enjoy  it;  has  had  two  shocks  of  palsy, 
and  seems  altogether  in  a  precarious  way.  To  me  he  is  and  has 
been  an  object  of  very  minor  interest  for  many,  many  years.  The 
novelwright  of  his  time,  its  favourite  child,  and  therefore  an  al¬ 
most  worthless  one.  Yet  is  there  something  in  his  deep  recogni¬ 
tion  of  the  worth  of  the  past,  perhaps  better  than  anything  he  has 
expressed  about  it,  into  which  I  do  not  yet  fully  see.  Have  never 
spoken  with  him  (though  I  might  sometimes  without  great  effort) ; 
and  now  probably  never  shall. 

What  an  advantage  has  the  pulpit  where  you  address  men  already 
arranged  to  hear  you,  and  in  a  vehicle  which  long  use  has  ren¬ 
dered  easy  ;  how  infinitely  harder  when  you  have  all  to  create — not 
the  ideas  only  and  the  sentiments,  but  the  symbols  and  the  mood 
of  mind  !  Nevertheless,  in  all  cases  where  man  addresses  man,  on 
his  spiritual  interests  especially,  there  is  a  sacredness ,  could  we 
but  evolve  it,  and  think  and  speak  in  it.  Consider  better  what  it 
is  thou  meanest  by  a  symbol ;  how  far  thou  hast  insight  into  the 
nature  thereof. 

Is  Art  in  the  old  Greek  sense  possible  for  men  at  this  late  era  ? 
or  were  not  perhaps  the  founder  of  a  religion  our  true  Homer  at 
present?  The  whole  soul  must  be  illuminated,  made  harmonious. 
Shakespeare  seems  to  have  had  no  religion  but  his  poetry. 

Where  is  To-morrow  resident  even  now?  Somewhere  or  some¬ 
how  it  is,  doubt  not  of  that.  On  the  common  theory  thou  mayest 
think  thyself  into  madness  on  this  question. 

November  2. — How  few  people  speak  for  Truth’s  sake,  even  in 
its  humblest  modes  !  I  return  from  Enfield,  where  I  have  seen 
.  Lamb,  &c.  &c.  Not  one  of  that  class  will  tell  you  a  straightfor¬ 
ward  story  or  even  a  credible  one  about  any  matter  under  the  sun. 
All  must  be  packed  up  into  epigrammatic 'contrasts,  startling  ex¬ 
aggerations,  claptraps  that  will  get  a  plaudit  from  the  galleries ! 
I  have  heard  a  hundred  anecdotes  about  William  Hazlitt  for  ex¬ 
ample  ;  yet  cannot  by  never  so  much  cross-questioning  even  form 
to  myself  the  smallest  notion  of  how  it  really  stood  with  him. 


170 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


Wearisome,  inexpressibly  wearisome  to  me  is  that  sort  of  clatter ; 
it  is  not  walking  (to  the  end  of  time  you  would  never  advance,  for 
these  persons  indeed  have  no  whither)  ;  it  is  not  bounding  and 
frisking  in  graceful,  natural  joy;  it  is  dancing — a  St.  Vitus’s  dance. 
Heigh  ho  !  Charles  Lamb  I  sincerely  believe  to  be  in  some  con¬ 
siderable  degree  insane.  A  more  pitiful,  ricketty,  gasping,  stag¬ 
gering,  stammering  Tomfool  I  do  not  know.  He  is  witty  by  deny¬ 
ing  truisms  and  abjuring  good  manners.  His  speech  wriggles 
hither  and  thither  with  an  incessant  painful  fluctuation,  not  an 
opinion  in  it,  or  a  fact,  or  a  phrase  that  you  can  thank  him  for — 
more  like  a  convulsion  fit  than  a  natural  svstole  and  diastole.  Be- 

t J 

sides,  he  is  now  a  confirmed,  shameless  drunkard ;  asks  vehe¬ 
mently  for  gin  and  water  in  strangers’  houses,  tipples  till  he  is 
utterly  mad,  and  is  only  not  thrown  out  of  doors  because  he  is 
too  much  despised  for  taking  such  trouble  with  him.  Poor 
Lamb !  Poor  England,  when  such  a  despicable  abortion  is 
named  genius !  He  said  there  are  just  two  things  I  regret  in 
England’s  history  :  first,  that  Guy  Eawkes’  plot  did  not  take  effect 
(there  would  have  been,  so  glorious  an  explosion ) ;  second,  that  the 
Loyalists  did  not  hang  Milton  (then  we  might  have  laughed  at 
them),  Ac.  Ac.  Armer  Tevfel! 

Carlyle  did  not  know  at  this  time  the  tragedy  lying  be¬ 
hind  the  life  of  Charles  Lamb,  which  explained  or  extenu¬ 
ated  his  faults.  Yet  this  extravagantly  harsh  estimate  is 
repeated — scarcely  qualified— in.  a  sketch  written  nearly  ' 
forty  years  after. 

Among  the  scrambling  miscellany  of  notables  that  hovered 
about  us,  Leigh  Hunt  was  probably  the  best,  poor  Charles  Lamb 
the  worst.  He  was  sinking  into  drink,  poor  creature  ;  his  fraction 
of  ‘humour,’  Ac.,  I  recognised,  and  recognised — but  never  could 
accept  for  a  great  thing,  a  genuine,  but  essentially  small  and  cock¬ 
ney  thing;  and  now  with  gin,  Arc.,  superadded,  one  had  to  say 
‘  Genius !  This  is  not  genius,  but  diluted  insanity.  Please  re¬ 
move  this !  ’ 

The  gentle  Elia  deserved  a  kinder  judgment.  Carlyle 
considered  c humour’  to  be  the  characteristic  of  the  high- 
est  order  of  mind.  He  had  heard  Lamb  extravagantly 
praised,  perhaps,  for  this  particular  quality,  and  he  was 


Six  Months  in  London. 


171 


provoked  to  find  it  combined  with  habits  which  his  own 
stern  Calvinism  was  unable  to  tolerate. 

To  return  to  the  letters  : — 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

4  Ampton  Street,  Mecklenburgh  Square,  London  : 

October  20,  1831. 

My  dear  Mother, — We  have  nestled  down  here  in  our  tight  little 
lodging,  and  are  as  quiet  as  we  could  wish  to  be.  Jane  is  in  bet¬ 
ter  health  than  she  has  enjoyed  for  many  months ;  I,  too,  am  fully 
better.  We  live  thriftily,  have  companions  and  conversation  of 
the  best  that  can  be  had ;  and  except  that  I  cannot  honestly  tell 
myself  that  I  am  working  (though  I  daily  make  the  attempt  to 
work  and  keep  scraffling  and  fettering),  we  ought  to  call  ourselves 
very  well  off  indeed.  The  people  of  the  house  are  cleanly,  orderly, 
and  seem  honest — no  noises,  no  bugs  disturb  us  through  the  night ; 
on  the  whole  it  is  among  the  best  places  for  sleep  I  have  been  in, 
as  you  may  judge  by  this  fact,  that  more  than  once  we  have  slept 
almost  ten  hours  at  a  stretch — a  noble  spell  of  sleeping,  of  which, 
however,  both  of  us,  so  long  disturbed  and  tost  about,  had  need 
enough.  The  worst  thing  about  our  establishment  is  its  hamper - 
edness,  which  is  so  much  the  more  sensible  to  us  coming  from  the 
desert  vastness  of  the  moor  at  Craigenputtock.  I  have  a  sort  of 
feeling  as  if  I  were  tied  up  in  a  sack  and  could  not  get  my  fins 
stirred.  No  doubt  this  will  wear  off,  for  one  needs  but  little  room 
to  work  profitably  in  ; .  my  craft  especially  requires  nothing  but  a 
chair,  a  table,  and  a  piece  of  paper.  Were  I  once  fairly  heated  at 
my  work,  I  shall  not  mind  what  sort  of  harness  I  am  in.  Napier 
writes  to  me  that  he  expects  a  ‘  striking  essay  ’  from  my  hand  for 
his  next  4  Edinburgh  Review,’  so  I  must  bestir  me,  for  there  is  lit¬ 
tle  more  than  a  month  to  work  in. 

Some  of  my  friends  here  are  talking  of  possible  situations  for 
me,  but  as  yet  on  no  ground  that  I  can  fairly  see  with  my  own 
eyes.  I  let  it  be  known  to  every  one  who  takes  interest  in  me  that 
I  am  very  desirous  to  work  at  any  honest  employment  I  am  ac¬ 
quainted  with ;  but  for  the  rest,  able  to  hold  on  my  way  whether  I 
find  other  employment  or  not.  If  I  can  earn  myself  a  more  liberal 
livelihood,  I  hope  I  shall  be  thankful  for  it,  and  use  it  as  it  be¬ 
seems  me ;  nav,  I  would  even  live  in  London  for  the  sake  of  such 
’  «/  * 

a  blessing ;  but  if  nothing  of  the  kind  turn  up,  as  is  most  likely 


172 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

tlien  I  can  also,  with  all  contentment,  return  to  the  Whinstone 
Craig,  and  rejoice  that  this  city  of  refuge  is  left  me.  Truly  thank¬ 
ful  ought  1  to  be  that  the  Giver  of  all  Good  has  imparted  to  me 
this  highest  of  all  blessings  ;  light  to  discern  His  hand  in  the  con¬ 
fused  workings  of  this  evil  world;  and  to  follow  fearlessly  whither¬ 
soever  He  beckons  !  Ever  be  praised  God  for  it !  I  was  once  the 
miserablest  of  all  men,  but  shall  not  be  so  any  more.  On  the 
whole,  however,  there  is  work  in  abundance  for  me  here; — men 
ignorant  on  all  hands  of  me  of  what  it  most  concerns  them  to 
know  ;  neither  will  I  turn  me  from  the  task  of  teaching  them  as  it 
is  given  me.  Had  I  once  investigated  the  ground  fully,  I  may 
perhaps  lift  up  my  voice  so  that  it  shall  be  heard  a  little  farther 
than  heretofore.  But  I  wish  to  do  nothing  rashly,  to  take  no  step 
which  I  might  wish  in  vain  to  retrace. 

Meanwhile,  my  book,  withdrawn  from  all  bookselling  consulta¬ 
tions,  lies  safe  in  the  box,  waiting  till  the  book-trade  revive  before 
I  make. a  farther  attempt.  The  Reform  Bill,  I  suppose,  must  .be 
disposed  of  first ;  and  when  that  may  be  I  know  not,  neither,  in¬ 
deed,  care.  If  the  wTorld  will  not  have  my  bit-book,  then,  of  a 
truth,  my  bit-book  can  do  without  the  world.  One  good  thing  in 
the  middle  of  all  this  stagnation  is  that  w7e  are  perfectly  peaceable 
here,  though  the  contrary  wras  by  some  apprehended.  The  news¬ 
papers  will  tell  you,  as  their  way  is,  about  wars  and  rumours  of 
wars;  but  you  need  not  believe,  them,  or  heed  them.  I  see  no 
symptom  of  revolting  among  the  people,  neither  do  I  believe  that 
anything  short  of  hunger  will  raise  them— of  which,  happily,  there 
is  as  yet  no  approach.  So  keep  yourself  perfectly  easy,  my  dear 
mother,  and  know7  that  we  are  as  safe  as  we  could  anywhere  be ; 
nay,  at  the  first  stir  of  ‘  revolution :  cannot  w7e  hasten  to  the  Craig 
and  sit  there  and  see  them  revolve  it  out  for  their  ow7n  behoof. 

I  dare  say  you  have  not  seen  in  the  newspapers,  but  will  soon 
see  something  extraordinary  about  poor  Edward  Irving.  His 
friends  here  are  all  much  grieved  about  him.  For  many  months 
he  has  been  puddling  and  muddling  in  the  midst  of  certain  insane 
jargonings  of  hysterical  women,  and  crackbrained  enthusiasts,  who 
start  up  from  time  to  time  in  public  companies,  and  utter  con¬ 
fused  stuff,  mostly  ‘Ohs’  and  ‘Alls,’  and  absurd  interjections 
about  ‘  the  body  of  Jesus  ;  ’  they  -also  pretend  to  e  work  miracles,’ 
and  have  raised  more  than  one  weak  bedrid  woman,  and  cured 
jjeople  of  ‘nerves,’  or  as  they  themselves  say,  ‘cast  devils  out  of 
them.’  All  which  poor  Irving  is  pleased  to  consider  as  the  ‘  w7ork 


Six  Months  in  London. 


173 


of  tlie  Spirit,’  and  to  janner  about  at  great  length,  as  making  his 
church  the  peculiarly  blessed  of  Heaven,  and  equal  to  or  greater 
than  the  primitive  one  at  Corinth.  This,  greatly  to  my  sorrow  and 
that  of  many,  has  gone  on  privately  a  good  while,  with  increasing- 
vigour  ;  but  last  Sabbath  it  burst  out  publicly  in  the  open  church ; 
for  one  of  the  ‘  Prophetesses,’  a  woman  on  the  verge  of  derange¬ 
ment,  started  up  in  the  time  of  worship,  and  began  to  speak  with 
tongues,  and,  as  the  thing  was  encouraged  by  Irving,  there  were 
some  three  or  four  fresh  hands  who  started  up  in  the  evening  ser¬ 
mon  and  began  their  ragings ;  whereupon  the  whole  congregation 
got  into  foul  uproar,  some  groaning,  some  laughing,  some  shriek¬ 
ing,  not  a  few  falling  into  swoons  :  more  like  a  Bedlam  than  a 
Christian  church.  Happily,  neither  Jane  nor  I  were  there,  though 
we  had  been  the  previous  day.-.  "We  had  not  even  heard  of  it. 
When  going  next  evening  to  call  on  Irving,  we  found  the  house 
all  decked  out  for  a  ‘meeting,’  (that  is,  about  this  same  ‘speaking 
with  tongues  ’),  and  as  we  talked  a  moment  with  Irving,  who  had 
come  down  to  us,  there  rose  a  shriek  in  the  upper  story  of  the 
house,  and  presently  he  exclaimed,  ‘  There  is  one  prophesying ; 
come  and  hear  her !  ’  We  hesitated  to  go,  but  he  forced  us  up 
into  a  back  room,  and  there  we  could  hear  the  wretched  creature 
raving  like  one  possessed :  booing,  and  lining,  and  talking  as  sen¬ 
sibly  as  one  would  do  with  a  pint  of  brandy  in  his  stomach,  till 
after  some  ten  minutes  she  seemed  to  grow  tired  and  become  silent. 

Nothing  so  shocking  and  altogether  unspeakably  deplorable  was 
it  ever  my  lot  to  hear.  Poor  Jane  was  on  the  verge  of  fainting, 
and  did  not  recover  the  whole  night.  And  now  the  newspapers 
have  got  wind  of  it  and  are  groaning  loudly  over  it,  and  the  con¬ 
gregation  itself  is  like  to  split,  on  the  matter ;  and  for  poor  Ir¬ 
ving  in  any  case  dark  mad  times  are  coming.  You  need  not  speak 
of  all  this,  at  least  not  be  the  first  to  speak  of  it ;  most  likely  it 
will  be  too  public.  What  the  final  issue  for  our  most  worthy,  but 
most  misguided  friend  may  be,  I  dare  not  so  much  as  guess. 
Could  I  do  anything  to  save  him,  it  were  well  my  part,  but  I  de¬ 
spair  of  being  able  to  accomplish  anything.  I  began  a  letter  to 
him  yesterday,  but  gave  it  ivp  as  hopeless  when  I  heard  that  the 
newspapers  had  interfered,  for  now  Irving  I  reckon  will  not  draw 
back,  lest  it  should  seem  fear  of  men  rather  than  of  God.  The 
unhappy  man !  Let  us  nevertheless  hope  that  he  is  not  utterly 
lost,  but  only  gone  astray  for  a  time.  Be  thankful  also  that  our 
wits  are  still  in  some  measure  left  with  us. 


174  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

October  21. 

•  •••••-•• 

The  newspapers  call  on  Irving’s  people  for  the  honour  of  Scot* 
land  to  leave  him  or  muzzle  him.  The  most  general  hypothesis 
is  that  he  is  a  quack,  the  milder  that  he  is  getting  cracked.  Poor 
George  is  the  man  I  pity  most ;  he  spoke  to  us  of  it,  almost  with 
tears  in  eyes,  and  earnestly  entreated  me  to  deal  with  his  brother, 
which,  when  he  comes  hither  (by  appointment  on  Tuesday),  I 
partly  mean  to  attempt,  though  now  I  fear  it  will  be  useless.  It 
seems  likely  that  all  the  Loselism  of  London  will  be  about  the 
church  next  Sunday,  that  his  people  will  quarrel  with  him ;  in  any 
case  that  troublous  times  are  appointed  him.  My  poor  friend ! 
And  yet  the  punishment  was  not  unjust,  that  he  who  believed 
without  inquiry  should  now  believe  against  all  light,  and  porten¬ 
tously  call  upon  the  world  to  admire  as  inspiration  what  is  but  a 
dancing  on  the  verge  of  bottomless  abysses  of  madness.  I  see  not 
the  end  of  it — who  does  ? 

Carlyle  did  attempt,  as  he  has  related  in  the  6  Reminis¬ 
cences,’  and  as  he  tells  in  his  letters,  to  drag  Irving  back 
from  the  precipice  ;  bnt  it  proved  as  vain  as  he  had  feared  ; 
and  all  that  he  could  do  was  but  to  stand  aside  and  watch 
the  ruin  of  his  true  and  noble-minded  friend.  The  last 
touch  was  added  to  the  tragedy  by  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle  to  witness  the  catastrophe. 

Meanwhile  London  was  filling  again  after  the  holidays  ; 
and  the  autumn  brought  back  old  faces  of  other  friends 
whom  Carlyle  was  glad  to  see  again.  The  Bullers  were 
among  the  earliest  arrivals.  Charles  Buller,  then  begin¬ 
ning  his  brief  and  brilliant  career,  was  an  advanced  Rad¬ 
ical  in  politics,  and  equally  advanced  in  matters  of  spec¬ 
ulation.  He  had  not  yet  found  a  creed,  as  he  had  said, 
which  he  could  even  wish  to  believe  true.  He  had  a  gen¬ 
erous  scorn  of  affectation,  and  did  not  choose,  like  many 
of  his  contemporaries,  to  wear  a  mask  of  veiled  hypocrisy. 
The  hen  is  terrified  when  the  ducklings  she  has  hatched 
take  to  water.  Mrs.  Buller,  indeed,  shared  her  son’s  feel¬ 
ings  and  felt  no  alarm  ;  but  her  sister,  Mrs.  Stracliey, 


Six  Months  in  London . 


175 


who,  a  good  religious  woman,  was  shocked  at  a  freedom 
less  common  then  than  it  is  now,  because  it  could  be  less 
safely  avowed,  and  in  despair  of  help  from  the  professional 
authorities,  to  whom  she  knew  that  her  nephew  would  not 
listen,  she  turned  to  Carlyle,  whose  opinions  she  perhaps 
imperfectly  understood,  but  of  whose  piety  of  heart  she 
was  assured. 

Carlyle  was  extremely  fond  of  Charles  Buller.  Ide  was 
the  only  person  of  distinction  or  promise  of  distinction 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact  that  he  heartily  admired  ; 
and  he,  too,  had  regretted  to  see  his  old  pupil  rushing  off 
into  the  ways  of  agnosticism.  Well  he  knew  that  no  man 
ever  came,  or  ever  could  come,  to  any  greatness  in  this 
world  in  irreverent  occupation  with  the  mere  phenomena 
of  earth.  The  agnostic  doctrines,  he  once  said  to  me,  were 
to  appearance  like  the  finest  flour,  from  which  you  might 
expect  the  most  excellent  bread ;  but  when  you  came  to 
feed  on  it  you  found  it  was  powdered  glass  and  you  had 
been  eating  the  deadliest  poison.  What  he  valued  in 
Buller  was  his  hatred  of  cant,  his  frank  contempt  of  in¬ 
sincere  professions.  But  refusal  even  to  appear  to  con¬ 
form  with  opinions  which  the  world  holds  it  decent  to  pro¬ 
fess,  is  but  the  clearing  of  the  soil  from  weeds.  Carlyle, 
without  waiting  to  be  urged  by  Mrs.  Strachey,  had  long 
been  labouring  to  sovT  the  seeds  in  Buller  of  a  nobler  be¬ 
lief  ;  but  a  faith  which  can  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of 
wrork  cannot  be  taught  like  a  mathematical  problem,  and 
if  Carlyle  had  shown  Mrs.  Strachey  the  condition  of  his 
own  mind,  she  would  scarcely  have  applied  to  him  for  as¬ 
sistance.  Buller  died  before  it  had  been  seen  to  what 
seed  sown  such  a  mind  as  his  might  eventually  have  grown. 


e  to  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 


November  10,  1831. 


I  feel  in  some  measure  getting  to  my  feet  again  after  so  long 


170 


IAfe  of  1' homos  Carlyle. 


stumbling.  Homo  time  ago,  I  actually  began  a  paper  for  tlie 
‘  Edinburgh  Review/  at  which  1  am  daily  working.  My  hand  was 
sadly  out;  but  by  resolute  endeavour  I  feel  that  it  will  come  in 
again,  and  J.  shall  perhaps  make  a  tolerable  story  of  it.  Ho  long 
as  f  can  work  it  is  ail  well  with  me  :  I  care  for  nothing.  The 
only  thing  I  have  to  struggle  against  is  idleness  and  falsehood. 
These  are  the  two  Devil’s  emissaries  that,  did  I  give  them  heed, 
would  work  all  my  woe.  A  considerable  paper  of  mine  came  out 
in  the  ‘  Foreign  Quarterly  Review ’  (Cochrane’s),  which,  with  sev¬ 
eral  other  tilings  that  you  have  not  yet  seen,  I  hope  to  show  you 
and  get  you  to  read  when  I  return.  Cochrane’s  pay  will  serve  to 
keep  Mall  in  ahuji  till  we  turn  northward.  Meanwhile  all  goes 
on  as  well  as  we  could  hope  ;  our  lodgings  continue  very  com- 
foHablc  and  very  cheap ;  so  that  we  can  both  live  for  little  more 
than  it  used  in  my  last  London  residence  to  cost  me  alone.  The 
people  are  very  cleanly,  polite,  decent-minded  people ;  they  have 
seen  better  days,  and  seem  to  have  a  heart  above  their  lot.  Both 
of  us  sleep  well;  our  health  is  fully  of  the  old  quality:  we  eat 
and  breathe,  and  have  wherewith  to  eat  and  breathe;  for  honest 
thinking  and  honest  acting  the  materials  are  everywhere  laid  down 
to  one. 

Tlxcopt  the  printing  of  my  book,  or  rather  the  trying  for  it  so 
long  as  there  seems  any  good  chance,  I  have  no  special  call  at 
London.  Nevertheless,  there  are  many  profitable  chances  for  me 
here;  especially  many  persons  with  whom  I  find  much  encourage¬ 
ment  and  perhaps  improvement  in  associating.  A  considerable 
knot  of  youny  men  in  particular  I  discover  here  that  have  had 
their  eyes  on  me,  and  wish  for  insight  from  me;  with  these  it 
seems  quite  possible  some  good  may  be  done.  Among  the  num¬ 
ber  was  my  landlord  this  morning,’  a  secretary  in  one  of  the  Gov¬ 
ernment  offices,  whom  1  met  with  for  the  first  time.  He  had  a 
whole  party  to  meet  mo :  four  of  the  best  mannered,  most  pleas¬ 
ant  persons  I  have  for  a  long  time  seen:  all  ingenuous  persons 
‘  lying/  what  so  lew  do,  ‘  open  to  light.’  The  disciple  or  associate 
I  have  most  to  do  with  is  one  John  Mill  (the  son  of  a  Scotchman 
of  eminence),  acquainted  with  the  Bullers,  &c.,  who  is  a  great 
favourite,  here.  It  was  he  that  brought  about  my  meeting  this 
morning  with  my  secnitary  (Taylor)  and  his  friends,  whom  I  hope 
to  see  again.  Charles  Buller  also  has  come  to  town;  he  made 
his  appearance  here  the  other  day,  was  in  about  an  hour  followed 

U'*nry  (now  Hit  Henry)  Taylor,  with  whom  he  had  been  at  breakfast. 


i 


Six  Months  in  London. 


177 


by  Mill,  and  the  two  made  what  Jane  called  ‘  a  pleasant  forenoon 
call  of  seven  hours  and  a  half.’  Charles  is  grown  a  great  tower 
of  a  fellow,  six  feet  three  in  height,  a  yard  in  breadth,  shows 
great  talent  and  great  natural  goodness,  which  I  hope  he  will  by- 
and-by  turn  to  notable  account.  I  met  him  and  Strachey  amid 
the  raw,  frosty  fog  of  Piccadilly  this  morning,  and  expect  to  see 
him  some  evening  soon.  Mrs.  Strachey  is  just  returned  from  Dev¬ 
onshire,  whence  she  had  written  us  a  very  kind  and  true-looking 
letter,  and  we  expect  to  see  her  soon.  The  Montagus  go  hover¬ 
ing  much  about  us;  but  their  intercourse  is  of  inferior  profit  : 
their  whole  way  of  life  has  a  certain  hollowness,  so  that  you  no¬ 
where  find  firm  bottom.  One  must  try  to  take  the  good  out  of 
each  and  keep  aloof  from  the  evil  that  lies  everywhere  mixed 
with  it. 

Irving  comes  but  little  in  our  way ;  and  one  does  not  like  to  go 
and  seek  him  in  his  own  house  in  a  whole  posse  of  enthusiasts, 
ranters,  and  silly  women.  He  was  here  once,  taking  tea,  since 
that  work  of  the  ‘  Tongues  ’  began.  I  told  him  with  great  earn¬ 
estness  my  deep-seated,  unhesitating  conviction  that  it  was  no  spe¬ 
cial  work  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  or  of  any  spirit,  save  of  that  black, 
frightful,  unclean  one  that  dwells  in  Bedlam.  He  persists,  mildly 
obstinate,  in  his  course,  greatly  strengthened  therein  by  his  wife, 
who  is  reckoned  the  beginner  of  it  all.  What  it  will  all  lead  to  I 
pretend  not  to  prophesy.  I  do  not  think  it  can  spread  to  any  ex¬ 
tent  even  among  the  vulgar  here  at  this  time  of  day ;  only  a  small 
knot  of  ravers  now  rave  in  that  old  worn-out  direction.  But  for 
Irving  himself  the  consequences  frighten  me.  That  he  will  lose 
his  congregation  seems  calculated  on  by  his  friends  ;  but  perhaps 
a  far  darker  fear  is  not  out  of  the  question,  namely  that  he  may 
lose  his  own  wits.  God  guard  him  from  such  a  consummation  ! 
None  of  you,  I  am  sure,  will  join  in  any  ill-natured  clamours 
against  him.  Defend  him  rather  with  brotherly  charity,  and  hope 
always  that  he  will  yet  be  delivered  from  this  real  delusion  of 
the  Devil. 

Jane  wanted  me  to  tell  you  of  the  ‘ Examiner’  editor,1  but  I 
have  not  space  here.  The  poor  fellow  has  been  thrown  out  of  a 
gig,  and  is  tediously  lame ;  so  I  have  not  yet  seen  him  here, 
neither  was  he  at  home  when  I  pilgrimed  over  the  other  day,  but 
gone  to  Brighton  for  sea  air.  My  ideas,  therefore,  were  only 
formed  by  candle-light.  He  is  a  long,  thin,  tawtie- headed  man, 


Vol.  II.— 12 


1  Fonblanque. 


178 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

with  wrinkly,  even  baggy  face,  keen,  zealous-looking  eyes,  a  sort 
of  well  toned,  honestly  argumentative  voice ;  very  much  the  air 
of  a  true-hearted  Radical.  He  was  all  braced  with  straps,  moving 
on  crutches,  and  hung  together  loosely,  you  would  have  said,  as  by 
flctil-cappins.  However,  we  got  along  bravely  together,  and  parted, 
after  arguing  and  assenting  and  laughing  and  mourning  at  consider¬ 
able  length,  with  mutual  purposes  to  meet  again.  I  rather  like  the 
man ;  there  is  far  more  in  him  than  in  most  of  Radicals ;  besides, 
he  means  honestly,  and  has  a  real  feeling  where  the  shoe  pinches, 
namely,  that  the  grand  misery  is  the  condition  of  the  poor  classes. 

I  had  much  to  write  about  the  state  of  matters  here,  and  to 
quiet  your  fears  especially  about  the  cholera,  which  so  many  tor¬ 
ment  themselves  with.  It  is  in  truth  a  disease  of  no  such  terrific 
quality,  only  that  its  effect  is  sudden,  and  the  people  have  heard 
so  much  about  it.  Scarcely  a  year  but  there  is  a  typhus  fever  in 
Glasgow  or  Edinburgh  that  kills  far  more  than  the  cholera  does 
in  like  cases.  For  my  part,  I  am  even  satisfied  that  it  has  reached 
our  coasts  (where  I  have  long  inevitably  expected  it),  and  that 
now  the  reality  which  is  measurable  will  succeed  the  terror  which 
is  unmeasurable,  and  doing  great  mischief  both  to  individual 
peace  of  mind  and  all  kinds  of  commercial  intercourse.  The 
worst  effect  here  will  be  that  same  interruption ;  thus  already  the 
coals  which  come  from  Northumberland  are  beginning  to  rise. 
On  the  whole,  however,  it  is  our  purpose  to  run  no  unnecessary 
risks ;  therefore,  should  the  danger  really  come  near  us,  and  the 
disease  break  out  in  London  under  a  shape  in  any  measure  for¬ 
midable,  we  will  forthwith  bundle  our  gear,  and  return  to  Puttock 
till  it  is  over.  This  we  have  resolved  on,  so  disquiet  not  yourself, 
my  dear  mother ;  there  is  no  peril  for  the  moment ;  nay,  it  is  a 
hundred  miles  nearer  you  than  us.  As  to  rioting  and  all  that  sort 
of  matter,  there  is  no  symptom  of  it  here ;  neither  in  case  of  its 
actual  occurrence  have  persons  like  us  anything  to  fear.  We  are 
safer  here,  I  take  it,  than  we  should  be  in  Dunscore  itself.  ...  I 
will  write,  if  aught  notable  happen,  instantly.  Farewell,  dear 
mother.  God  bless  you  all.  T.  Carlyle. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

November  13,  1831. 

•  '•••••a* 

As  to  Irving,  expect  little  tidings  of  him.  I  think  I  shall  hence¬ 
forth  see  little  of  him.  His  ‘  gift  of  tongues  ’  goes  on  apace.  Glen 
says  there  was  one  performing  yesterday  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  the 


Six  Months  in  London. 


179 


Cockneys  are  too  old  for  sncli  lullabies — they  simply  think  he  is 
gone  distracted,  or  means  to  ‘  do  ’  them ;  and  so,  having  seen  ii 
once,  come  no  more  back.  Edward  himself  came  here  about  a 
fortnight  ago  to  tea,  and  I  told  him  solemnly,  with  a  tone  of 
friendly  warning  such  as  he  well  merited  from  me,  what  I  thought 
of  that  scandalous  delusion.  He  was  almost  at  crying,  but  re¬ 
mained — as  I  expected  him  to  remain.  It  sometimes  appears  to 
me  the  darkest  fears  are  actually  not  groundless  in  regard  to  him. 
God  deliver  him !  If  that  is  not  the  Devil’s  own  work,  then  let 
the  Devil  lay  down  the  gun. 

I  know  not  whether  you  get  any  Galignani's  Messenger  or  the 
like,  so  whether  it  is  worth  while  to  send  you  any  public  news. 
There  have  been  frightful  riots  at  Bristol,  some  hundreds  of  lives 
lost,  all  the  public  buildings  burnt,  and  many  private  houses — 
quite  a  George  Gordon  affair — on  occasion  of  Wetlierell’s  arrival 
there  as  Recorder,  whom  unhappily  they  took  that  method  of 
convincing  that  there  was  not  1  a  reaction  ’  (in  regard  to  Reform). 
Oh,  the  unspeakable,  blundering,  braying,  brass-throated,  leather¬ 
headed  fool  and  fools  !  If  they  do  not  pass  that  Bill  of  theirs 
soon,  the  country  will  be  a  chaos,  and  200  Tory  lords  crying  out, 
Who  shall  deliver  us  ?  The  Duke  of  Northumberland  is  actually 
fortifying  his  house  here.  Other  riots  there  have  been  at  Coven¬ 
try,  at  Worcester,  &c.  Swing  also  is  as  busy  as  last  winter ;  all 
London,  all  Britain,  is  organising  itself  into  political  unions. 
Finally,  the  cholera  has  actually  arrived  at  Sunderland  ;  a  precious 
outlook !  Truly  the  political  aspects  of  England  give  even  me 
alarms.  A  second  edition  of  the  French  Revolution  is  distinctly 
within  the  range  of  chances ;  for  there  is  nowhere  any  tie  remain¬ 
ing  among  men.  Everywhere,  in  court  and  cathedral,  brazen 
falsehood  now  at  length  stands  convicted  of  a  lie,  and  famishing 
Ignorance  cries,  Away  with  her,  away  with  her  !  God  deliver  us. 
Nay,  God  will  deliver  us  ;  for  this  is  His  world,  not  the  Devil’s. 
All  is  perfectly  quiet  in  London  hitherto  ;  only  great  apprehen¬ 
sion,  swearing-in  of  constables.  Neither  is  the  cholera  yet  dan¬ 
gerous.  It  has  not  spread  from  Sunderland,  where  it  has  now  been 
some  ten  days.  Should  the  danger  grow  imminent,  we  two  have 
determined  to  fly  to  Puttock.  Meanwhile,  I  cannot  say  that 
twenty  choleras  and  twenty  Revolutions  ought  to  terrify  one.  The 
crash  of  the  whole  solar  and  stellar  systems  could  only  kill  you 
once.  ‘  I  have  cast  away  base  fear  from  me  for  ever,’  says  Dreck, 
and  he  is  seldom  wholly  wrong. 


ISO 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


To  Mrs.  Welsh,1  Maryland  Street,  Liverpool. 

4  Ampton  Street :  Tuesday,  December,  1831. 

My  dear  Aunt, — When  I  returned  from  Enfield,  where  I  had 
been  for  a  week,  I  found  the  box  containing  the  memorials  of  my 
heedlessness 2  awaiting  me  on  the  top  of  a  cistern  outside  our 
staircase  window ;  and  our  landlady  assured  me  with  the  utmost 
self-complacency  that  she  had  done  all  she  could  for  it  in  the  way 
of  keeping  it  cool !  She  looked  rather  blank  when,  after  duly 
commending  her  care,  I  informed  her  it  was  probably  a  cloak  and 
shawl,  which  she  might  now  bring  in  out  of  the  rain  with  all  de¬ 
spatch.  Only  to  the  intellect  of  a  Cockney  would  a  deal  box  have 
suggested  the  exclusive  idea  of  game. 

The  cloak  I  got  dyed  a  more  sober  colour  and  lined  and  furred, 
so  as  effectually  to  exclude  the  cold,  no  slight  conquest  of  Art  over 
Nature  in  these  days.  Some  people  here  have  the  impudence  or 
ignorance  to  congratulate  me  on  the  agreeable  change  of  climate  I 
have  made ;  but  truly,  if  my  contentment  depended  mainly  on 
weather,  I  should  wish  myself  back  to  our  own  kill- top  without 
delay.  Regarded  as  a  jfiace  merely,  this  noble  city  is  simply  the 
most  detestable  I  ever  lived  in — one  day  a  ferocious  frost,  the  next 
a  fog  so  thick  you  might  put  it  in  your  pocket ;  a  Dead  Sea  of 
green-coloured  filth  under  foot,  and  above  an  atmosphere  like  one 
of  my  uncle’s  sugar  boilers.  But,  as  the  Drench  say,  il  faut  se  ran¬ 
ger  ;  and  so  day  after  day  I  rush  forth  with  desperate  resignation, 
and  even  find  a  sort  of  sublimity  in  the  infinite  horror  through 
which  I  must  make  my  way,  or  die  of  indigestion. 

If  I  am  inclined  to  reflect  on  the  place,  however  (perhaps  not 
without  a  touch  of  national  prejudice^,  it  is  certainly  my  bounden 
duty  to  speak  well  of  the  people.  Nowhere  have  I  found  more 
worth,  more  talent,  or  more  kindness  ;  and  I  must  doubly  regret 
the  ill-health  I  have  been  suffering  under,  since  it  has  so  curtailed 
my  enjoyment  of  all  this.  Nevertheless,  though  I  dare  seldom  ac¬ 
cept  an  invitation  out,  I  have  the  pleasantest  evenings  at  home. 
Scarce  a  night  passes  that  some  acquaintance,  new  or  old,  does 
not  drop  in  at  tea  ;  and  then  follow  such  bouts  at  talking  !  Not 
of  our  ‘  Book  ’  (as  my  uncle  named  Carlyle)  but  of  several  books. 

I  have  seen  most  of  the  literary  people  here,  and,  as  Edward 
Irving  said  after  his  first  interview  with  Wordsworth,  ‘  I  think  not 
of  them  so  highly  as  I  was  wont.’ 

1  Wife  of  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  Liverpool  uncle. 

?  Things  which  she  had  left  at  Liverpool  in  passing  through. 


iSix  Months  in  London. 


181 


These  people,  who  have  made  themselves  snug  little  reputa¬ 
tions,  and  on  the  strength  of  such  hold  up  their  heads  as  ‘  one 
and  somewhat,’  are  by  no  means  the  most  distinguished  that  I 
meet  with  either  for  talent  or  cultivation ;  some  of  them,  indeed 
(Charles  Lamb  for  instance),  would  not  be  tolerated  in  any  society 
out  of  England.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  My  kindest  love  to  my  uncle  and  all  the  weans.  Happy 
New  Year  and  many  of  them  ;  always  the  last  the  best !  God  bless 
you  all ! 

Your  affectionate 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 


To  Miss  Jean  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

4  Ampton  Street :  December,  1831. 

My  dear  Jean, — You  do  not  write  to  me;  but  you  write,  and  I 
am  content.  The  proverb  says  ‘  It  is  not  lost  that  a  friend  gets  ;  ’ 
to  which  I  readily  accede,  the  more  readily  because  a  letter  with 
us  is  always  regarded  as  a  common  good. 

I  do  not  forget  you  in  London,  as  you  predicted.  My  recollec¬ 
tions  of  all  I  love  are  more  vivid  than  at  any  former  period. 
Often  when  I  have  been  lying  ill  here  among  strangers,  it  has 
been  my  pleasantest  thought  that  there  were  kind  hearts  at  home 
to  whom  my  sickness  would  not  be  a  weariness ;  to  whom  I  could 
return  out  of  all  this  hubbub  with  affection  and  trust.  Not  that 
I  am  not  kindly  used  here  ;  from  ‘  the  noble  lady  ’ 1  down  to  the 
mistress  of  the  lodging,  I  have  everywhere  found  unlooked-for 
civility,  and  at  least  the  show  of  kindness.  With  the  ‘noble  lady,’ 
however,  I  may  mention  my  intercourse  seems  to  be  dying  an 
easy  natural  death.  Now  that  we  know  each  other,  the  ‘  fine  en- 
thu-si-asm  ’  cannot  be  kept  alive  without  more  hypocrisy  than  one 
of  us  at  least  can  bring  to  bear  on  it.  Mrs.  Montagu  is  an  actress. 
I  admire  her  to  a  certain  extent,  but  friendship  for  such  a  person 
is  out  of  the  question. 

Mrs.  Austin  I  have  now  seen,  and  like  infinitely  better.  She  is 
coming  to  tea  to-morrow  night.  If  I  ‘swear  everlasting  friend¬ 
ship  ’  with  any  woman  here,  it  will  be  with  her. 

But  the  most  interesting  acquaintances  we  have  made  are  the 
St.  Simonians.2  You  may  fancy  how  my  heart  beat  when  a  card 

1  Mrs.  Montagu. 

2  ‘The  St.  Simonians,  Detrosier,  &c. ,  were  stirring  and  conspicuous  objects 
in  that  epoch,  but  have  now  fallen  all  dark  and  silent  again. — T.  C.,  1866.’ 


182 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


bearing  tlie  name  of  Gustave  cVEichthal  was  sent  up  the  other  day, 
when  I  happened  to  be  alone.  Our  meeting  was  most  cordial ; 
and,  as  he  talks  good  English,  we  contrived  to  carry  on  a  pretty 
voluble  conversation  till  Carlyle  came  home  and  relieved  me.  He 
(Gustave)  is  a  creature  to  love  at  first  sight — so  gentle  and  trust¬ 
ful  and  earnest-looking,  ready  to  do  and  suffer  all  for  his  faith. 
A  friend  accompanies  him,  whom  we  had  here  to-day  along  with 
Mill  and  Detrosier  ;  a  stronger,  perhaps  nobler  man  them  Gustave, 
with  whom  Carlyle  seems  to  be  exceedingly  taken.  He  (Duver- 
rier  I  think  they  call  him)  is  at  first  sight  ugly  :  all  pitted  with 
the  small-pox ;  but  by-and-by  you  wonder  at  your  first  impression, 
his  countenance  is  so  prepossessing  and  commanding.  We  hope 
to  see  a  great  deal  of  these  men  before  we  leave  London.  Both 
seem  to  entertain  a  high  respect  for  Carlyle — as  indeed  everybody 
I  see  does.  Glen  continues  to  come  a  great  deal  about  us  ;  and 
blethers  more  like  a  man  growing  mad  than  one  growing  wiser. 
Carlyle  maintains  in  opposition  to  me  that  there  is  ‘  method  in  his 
madness,’  but  his  idea  of  the  quantity  seems  daily  diminishing. 

Of  the  Irvings  we  see  nothing  and  hear  little  good.  Carlyle 
dined  at  a  literary  party  the  other  day,  where  he  met  Hogg,  Lock¬ 
hart,  Galt,  Allan  Cunningham,  &c. 

And  now  God  bless  you,  one  and  all  of  you  !  My  love  to  every¬ 
one. 

Your  affectionate 


Jane  W.  Carlyle. 


CHAPTER  X 


♦  4' 

A.D.  1831.  iET.  36. 

Extracts  from  Note  Book. 

November  2. — All  the  world  is  in  apprehension  about  the  chol¬ 
era  pestilence,  which,  indeed,  seems  advancing  towards  us  with  a 
frightful,  slow,  unswerving  constancy.  For  myself  I  cannot  say 
that  it  costs  me  great  suffering ;  we  are  all  appointed  once  to  die. 
Death  is  the  grand  sum  total  of  it  all.  Generally,  now  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  this  life  were  but  the  inconsiderable  portico  of  man’s  ex¬ 
istence,  which  afterwards,  in  new  mysterious  environment,  were  to 
be  continued  without  end.  I  say,  ‘  seems  to  me,’  for  the  proof  of 
it  were  hard  to  state  by  logic ;  it  is  the  fruit  of  faith ;  begins  to 
show  itself  with  more  and  more  decisiveness  the  instant  you  have 
dared  to  say,  *  Be  it  either  way  !  ’  But  on  the  whole  our  concep¬ 
tion  of  immortality  depends  on  that  of  time ,  which  latter  is  the 
deepest  belonging  to  philosophy,  and  the  one  perhaps  wherein 
modern  philosophy  has  earned  its  best  triumph.  Believe  that 
properly  there  is  no  space  and  no  time,  how  many  contradictions 
become  reconciled. 

Sports  are  all  gone  from  among  men ;  there  is  now  no  holiday 
either  for  rich  or  poor.  Hard  toiling,  then  hard  drinking  or  hard 
fox-hunting.  This  is  not  the  era  of  sport,  but  of  martyrdom  and 
persecution.  Will  the  new  morning  never  dawn?  It  requires  a 
certain  vigour  of  the  imagination  and  of  the  social  faculties  before 
amusement,  popular  sports,  can  exist,  which  vigour  at  this  era  is 
all  but  total  inanition.  Do  but  think  of  the  Christmas  carols  and 
games,  the  Abbots  of  Unreason,  the  Maypoles,  &c.  &c.  Then  look 
at  your  Manchesters  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays. 

‘Education  ’  is  beyond  being  so  much  as  despised.  We  must 
praise  it,  when  it  is  not  ^education,  or  an  utter  annihilation 
of  what  it  professes  to  foster.  The  best  educated  man  you  will 


184: 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

often  find  to  be  the  artisan,  at  all  rates  the  man  of  business.  For 
why?  He  has  put  forth  his  hand  and  operated  on  Nature;  must 
actually  attain  some  true  insight,  or  he  cannot  live.  The  worst 
educated  man  is  usually  your  man  of  fortune.  He  has  not  put 
forth  his  hand  upon  anything  except  upon  his  bell  rope.  Your 
scholar  proper,  too,  your  so-called  man  of  letters,  is  a  thing  with 
clearer  vision,  through  the  hundredth  part  of  an  eye.  A  Burns  is 
infinitely  better  educated  than  a  Byron. 

A  common  persuasion  among  serious  ill-informed  persons  that 
the  end  of  the  world  is  at  hand — Henry  Drummond,  Edward  Ir¬ 
ving,  and  all  that  class.  So  it  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  era,  say  rather  at  the  termination  of  the  Pagan  one.  "Which 
is  the  most  ignorant  creature  of  his  class  even  in  Britain?  Gen¬ 
erally  speaking  the  Cockney,  the  London-bred  man.  What  does 
the  Cockney  boy  know  of  the  muffin  he  eats  ?  Simply  that  a 
hawker  brings  it  to  the  door  and  charges  a  penny  for  it.  The 
country  youth  sees  it  grow  in  the  fields,  in  the  mill,  in  the  bake¬ 
house.  Thus  of  all  things  pertaining  to  the  life  of  man. 

November  4. — To  it  thou  Taugenichts.  Gird  thyself!  stir!  strug¬ 
gle  !  forward !  forward !  thou  art  bundled  up  here  and  tied  as  in 
a  sack.  On,  then,  as  in  a  sack  race,  ‘  Punning,  not  raging.’  Gotl 

sey  mir  gnddig. 

November  12. — Have  been  two  days  as  good  as  idle — hampered, 
disturbed,  quite  out  of  sorts,  as  it  were  quite  stranded ;  no  tackle 
left,  no  tools  but  my  ten  fingers,  nothing  but  accidental  drift-wood 
to  build  even  a  raft  of.  ‘  This  is  no  my  ain  house.’  Art  thou 
aware  that  no  man  and  no  thing,  but  simqfiy  thy  own  self,  can  per¬ 
manently  keep  this  down?  Act  on  that  conviction. 

How  sad  and  stern  is  all  life  to  me  !  Homeless !  homeless ! 
would  my  task  were  done.  I  think  I  should  not  care  to  die  ;  in 
real  earnestness  should  care  very  little  ;  this  earthly  sun  has 
shown  me  only  roads  full  of  mire  and  thorns.  Why  cannot  I  be 
a  kind  of  artist  ?  Politics  are  angry,  agitating.  What  have  I  to 
do  with  it?  will  any  Parliamentary  Reform  ever  reform  me? 

This  I  begin  to  see,  that  evil  and  good  are  everywhere,  like 
shadow  and  substance ;  inseparable  (for  men),  yet  not  hostile, 
only  opposed.  There  is  considerable  significance  in  this  fact, 


Six  Months  in  London. 


185 


perhaps  the  new  moral  principle  of  our  era.  (How  ?)  It  was  fa¬ 
miliar  to  Goethe’s  mind. 

November  17. — The  nobleness  of  silence.  The  highest  melody 
dwells  only  in  silence  (the  sphere  melody,  the  melody  of  health) ; 
the  eye  cannot  see  shadow,  cannot  see  light,  but  only  the  two 
combined.  General  law  of  being.  Think  farther  of  this. 

As  it  is  but  a  small  portion  of  our  thinking  that  we  can  articu¬ 
late  into  thoughts,  so  again  it  is  but  a  small  portion,  properly 
only  the  outer  surface  of  our  morality,  that  we  can  shape  into 
action,  or  into  express  rules  of  action.  Remark  farther  that  it  is 
but  the  correct  coherent  shaping  of  this  outward  surface,  or  the 
incorrect,  incoherent,  monstrous  shaping  of  it,  and  no  wise  the 
moral  force  which  shaped  it,  which  lies  under  it,  vague,  indefinite, 
unseen,  that  constitutes  what  in  common  speech  we  call  a  moral 
conduct  or  an  immoral.  Hence,  too,  the  necessity  of  tolerance, 
of  insight,  in  judging  of  men.  For  the  correctness  of  that  same 
outer  surface  may  be  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  inward  depth 
and  quantity ;  nay,  often  enough  they  are  in  inverse  proportion ; 
only  in  some  highly  favoured  individuals  can  the  great  endow¬ 
ment  utter  itself  without  irregularity.  Thus  in  great  men,  with 
whom  inward  and  as  it  were  latent  morality  must  ever  be  the 
root  and  beginning  of  greatness,  how  often  do  we  find  a  conduct 
defaced  by  many  a  moral  impropriety,  and  have  to  love  them  with 
sorrow?  Thus,  too,  poor  Burns  must  record  that  almost  the  only 
noble-minded  men  he  had  ever  met  with  were  among  the  class 
named  Blackguards. 

Extremes  meet.  Perfect  morality  were  no  more  an  object  of 
consciousness  than  perfect  immorality,  as  pure  light  cannot  any 
more  be  seen  than  pure  darkness.  The  healthy  moral  nature 
loves  virtue,  the  unhealthy  at  best  makes  love  to  it. 

December  23. — Finished  the  1  Characteristics  ’  about  a  week 
ago  ;  baddish,  with  a  certain  beginning  of  deeper  insight  in  it. 

January  13,  1832. — Plenty  of  magazine  editors  applying  to  me, 
indeed  sometimes  pestering  me.  Do  not  like  to  break  with  any, 
yet  must  not  close  with  any.  Strange  state  of  literature,  periodi¬ 
cal  and  other  !  A  man  must  just  lay  out  his  manufacture  in  one 
of  those  old  clothes  shops  and  see  whether  any  one  will  buy  it. 
The  Editor  has  little  to  do  with  the  matter  except  as  commercial 
broker ;  he  sells  it  and  pays  you  for  it, 


186 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Lvtton  Bulwer  lias  not  yet  come  into  sight  of  me.  Is  there 
aught  more  in  him  than  a  dandiacal  philosophistr?  Fear  not. 
Of  the  infatuated  Fraser,  with  his  dog’s  meat  tart  of  a  magazine, 
what  ?  His  pay  is  certain,  and  he  means  honestly,  but  he  is  a 
goose.  It  was  he  that  sent  me  Croker’s  Boswell ;  am  I  bound  to 
offer  him  the  (future)  article  ?  or  were  this  the  rule  in  such  cases  ; 
write  thy  best  and  the  truth.  Then  publish  it  where  thou  canst 
best.  An  indubitable  rule,  but  is  it  rule  enough  ? 

Last  Friday  saw  my  name  in  large  letters  at  the  *  Athenaeum  ’ 
office  in  Catherine  Street,  Strand  ;  hurried  on  with  downcast  eyes 
as  if  I  had  seen  myself  in  the  pillory.  Dilke  (to  whom  I  had  en¬ 
trusted  Dreck  to  read  it,  and  see  if  he  could  help  me  with  it) 
asked  me  for  a  scrap  of  writing  with  my  name.  I  could  not  quite 
clearly  see  my  way  through  the  business,  for  he  had  twice  or 
thrice  been  civil  to  me,  and  I  did  reckon  his  ‘  Athenaeum  ’  to  be 
the  bad  best  of  literary  syllabubs,  and  thought  I  might  harmlessly 
say  so  much  ;  gave  him  Faust's  curse ,  which  hung  printed  there. 
Inclined  now  to  believe  that  I  did  wrong ;  at  least  imprudently. 
Why  yield  even  half  a  hair’s  breadth  to  puffing?  Abhor  it,  utterly 
divorce  it,  and  kick  it  to  the  Devil. 

Singular  how  little  wisdom  or  light  of  any  kind  I  have  met 
with  in  London.  Do  not  find  a  single  creature  that  has  commu¬ 
nicated  an  idea  to  me  ;  at  best  one  or  two  that  can  understand  an 
idea.  Yet  the  sight  of  London  works  on  me  strongly.  I  have 
not  perhaps  lost  my  journey  hither. 

Hayward  of  the  Temple,  a  small  but  active  and  vivacious  ‘  man 
of  the  time,’  by  a  strange  impetus  takes  to  me  ;  the  first  time, 
they  say,  he  ever  did  such  a  thing,  being  one  that  lives  in  a  chiar’- 
oscuro  element  of  which  good-humoured  contempt  is  the  basis. 
Dined  in  his  rooms  (over  Dunning’s)  with  a  set  of  Oxonian  Tem¬ 
plars,  stupid  (in  part),  limited  (wholly),  conceited.  A  dirty  even¬ 
ing  ;  I  at  last  sunk  utterly  silent.  None  of  the  great  personages 
of  letters  have  come  in  my  way  here,  and  except  as  sights  they 
are  of  little  moment  to  me.  Jeffrey  says  he  ;  praised  me  to 
[Rogers,’  who,  &c.  &c.  It  sometimes  rather  surprises  me  that  his 
lordship  does  not  think  it  would  be  kind  to  show  me  the  faces  of 
those  people.  Something  discourages  or  hinders  him;  what  it 
is  I  know  not,  and  indeed  care  not.  The  Austins,  at  least  the 
(Lady)  Austin,  I  like  ;  eine  verstandige  herzhafte  Frau.  Empson, 
a  diluted,  good-natured,  languid  Anempfinder.  The  strongest 


Six  Months  in  London. 


187 


young  man,  one  Macaulay  (now  in  Parliament,  as  I  from  tlie  first 
predicted),  an  emphatic,  hottisli,  really  forcible  person,  but  un¬ 
happily  without  divine  idea.  Rogers  (an  elegant,  politely  malig¬ 
nant  old  lady,  I  think)  is  in  town  and  probably  I  might  see  him. 
Moore  is  I  know  not  where,  a  lascivious  triviality  of  great  name. 
Bentham  is  said  to  have  become  a  driveller  and  garrulous  old 
man.  Perhaps  I  will  try  for  a  look  of  him.  I  have  much  to  see 
and  many  things  to  wind  up  in  London  before  we  leave  it. 

I  went  one  day  searching  for  Johnson’s  place  of  abode.  Found 
with  difficulty  the  house  in  Gough  (Goff)  Square,  where  the  Dic¬ 
tionary  was  composed.  The  landlord,  whom  Glen  and  I  incident¬ 
ally  inquired  of,  was  just  scraping  his  feet  at  the  door,  invited 
us  to  walk  in,  showed  us  the  garret  rooms,  &c.  (of  which  he 
seemed  to  have  the  obscurest  traditions,  taking  Johnson  for  a 
schoolmaster),  interested  us  much  ;  but  at  length  (dog  of  a  fellow) 
began  to  hint  that  he  had  all  these  rooms  to  let  as  lodgings. 

Biography  is  the  only  history.  Political  history  as  now  written 
and  hitherto,  with  its  kings  and  changes  of  tax-gatherers ,  is  littlo 
(very  little)  more  than  a  mockery  of  our  want.  This  I  see  more 
and  more. 

The  world  grows  to  me  even  more  as  a  magic  picture — a  true 
supernatural  revelation,  infinitely  stern,  but  also  infinitely  grand. 
Shall  I  ever  succeed  in  copying  a  little  therefrom. 

January  18. — -Came  upon  Shepherd,  the  Unitarian  parson  of 
Liverpool,  yesterday  for  the  first  time  at  Mrs.  Austin’s.  A  very 
large,  purfly,  flabby  man ;  massive  head  with  long  thin  grey 
hair  ;  eyes  both  squinting,  both  overlapped  at  the  corners  by  a 
little  roof  of  a  brow,  giving  him  (with  his  ill-shut  mouth)  a  kind 
of  lazy,  good-humoured  aspect.  For  the  rest,  a  Unitarian  Rad¬ 
ical,  clear,  steadfast,  but  every  way  limited.  One  rather  trivial- 
looking  young  lady,  and  another  excessively  ill-looking,  sat  oppo¬ 
site  to  him,  seeming  to  belong  to  him.  He  said  Jeffrey  did  not 
strike  him  as  ‘  a  very  taking  man.’  Lancashire  accent,  or  some 
provincial  one.  Have  long  known  the  Unitarians  intus  et  in  cute , 
and  never  got  any  good  of  them ,  or  any  ill. 

January  21. — Yesterday  sat  scribbling  some  stuff  close  on  the 
borders  of  nonsense,  about  biography  as  a  kind  of  introduction  to 
‘Johnson.’  How  is  it  to  be  ?  I  see  not  well ;  know  only  that  it 


188 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


should  be  light,  and  written  (by  way  of  experiment)  currente 
calamo.  I  am  sickly,  not  dispirited,  yet  sad,  as  is  my  wont. 
When  did  I  laugh  last  ?  Alas  !  ‘  light  laughter  like  heavy  money 
has  altogether  fled  from  us.’  The  reason  is,  we  have  no  commu- ! 
nion ;  company  enough,  but  no  fellowship.  Time  brings  roses.  I 
Meanwhile,  the  grand  perennial  Communion  of  Saints  is  ever  open 1 
to  us.  Enter  and  worthily  comport  thyself  there. 

Nothing  in  this  world  is  to  me  more  mournful,  distressing,  and 
in  the  end  intolerable,  than  mirth  not  based  on  earnestness  (for 
it  is  false  mirth),  than  wit  pretending  to  be  wit,  and  yet  not  based 
on  wisdom.  Two  objects  would  reduce  me  to  gravity  had  I  the 
spirits  of  a  Merry  Andrew — a  death’s  head  and  a  modern  London 
wit.  The  besom  of  destruction  should  be  swept  over  these  people, 
or  else  perpetual  silence  (except  when  they  needed  victuals  or 
the  like)  imposed  on  them. 

In  the  afternoon  Jeffrey,  as  he  is  often  wont,  called  in  on  us ; 
very  lively,  quick,  and  light.  Chatted  about  cholera,  a  subject 
far  more  interesting  to  him  than  it  is  to  us.  Walked  with  him 
to  Regent  Street  in  hurried  assiduous  talk.  O’Connell  I  called  a 
real  specimen  of  the  almost  obsolete  species  demagogue.  Why 
should  it  be  obsolete,  this  being  the  very  scene  for  it  ?  Chiefly 
because  we  are  all  dilettantes,  and  have  no  heart  of  faith,  even 
for  the  coarsest  of  beliefs.  His  ‘  cunning  ’  the  sign,  as  cunning 
ever  is,  of  a  tueak  intellect  or  a  weak  character. 

Soon  after  my  return  home  Arthur  Buller  called  with  a  mein 
bester  Freund  !  A  goodish  youth,  affectionate,  at  least  attached  ; 
not  so  handsome  as  I  had  expected,  though  more  so  than  enough. 
He  walked  with  me  to  Eraser’s  dinner  in  Regent  Street,  or  rather 
to  the  door  of  Eraser’s  house,  and  then  took  leave,  with  stipula¬ 
tion  of  speedy  re-meeting.  Enter  through  Eraser’s  bookshop 
into  a  back-room,  where  sit  Allan  Cunningham,  W.  Fraser  (the 
only  two  known  to  me  personally),  James  Hogg  (in  the  easy  chair 
of  honour),  Galt,  and  one  or  two  nameless  persons,  patiently 
waiting  for  dinner.  Lockhart  (whom  I  did  not  know)  requests  to 
be  introduced  to  me — a  precise,  brief,  active  person  of  consider¬ 
able  faculty,  which,  however,  had  shaped  itself  gigmanically  only. 
Fond  of  quizzing,  yet  not  very  maliciously.  Has  a  broad  black 
brow,  indicating  force  and  penetration,  but  a  lower  half  of  face 
diminishing  into  the  character  at  best  of  distinctness,  almost  of 
triviality.  Rather  liked  the  man,  and  shall  like  to  meet  him 
again.  Galt  looks  old,  is  deafish,  has  the  air  of  a  sedate  Green- 


Six  Months  in  London . 


189 


ock  burgher ;  mouth  indicating  sly  humour  and  self-satisfaction ; 
the  eyes,  old  and  without  lashes,  gave  me  a  sort  of  wae  interest 
for  him.  He  wears  spectacles,  and  is  hard  of  hearing ;  a  very 
large  man,  and  eats  and  drinks  with  a  certain  west  country  gusto 
and  research.  Said  little,  but  that  little  peaceable,  clear,  and 
gutmuthig.  Wish  to  see  him  also  again.  Hogg  is  a  little  red¬ 
skinned  stiff  sack  of  a  body,  with  quite  the  common  air  of  an 
Ettrick  shepherd,  except  that  he  has  a  highish  though  sloping 
brow  (among  his  yellow  grizzled  hair),  and  two  clear  little  beads 
of  blue  or  grey  eyes  that  sparkle,  if  not  with  thought,  yet  with 
animation.  Behaves  himself  quite  easily  and  well ;  speaks  Scotch, 
and  mostly  narrative  absurdity  (or  even  obscenity)  therewith. 
Appears  in  the  mingled  character  of  zany  and  raree  show.  All 
bent  on  bantering  him,  especially  Lockhart ;  Hogg  walking 
through  it  as  if  unconscious,  or  almost  flattered.  His  vanity  seems 
to  be  immense,  but  also  his  good-nature.  I  felt  interest  for  the 
poor  ‘  herd  body,’  wondered  to  see  him  blown  hither  from  his 
sheepfolds,  and  how,  quite  friendless  as  he  was,  he  went  along 
cheerful,  mirthful,  and  musical.  I  do  not  well  understand  the 
man ;  his  significance  is  perhaps  considerable.  His  poetic  talent 
is  authentic,  yet  his  intellect  seems  of  the  weakest ;  his  morality 
also  limits  itself  to  the  precept  ‘be  not  angry.’  Is  the  charm  of 
this  poor  man  chiefly  to  be  found  herein,  that  he  is  a  real  product 
of  nature,  and  able  to  speak  naturally,  which  not  one  in  a  thou¬ 
sand  is?  An  ‘unconscious  talent,’  though  of  the  smallest,  em¬ 
phatically  naive.  Once  or  twice  in  singing  (for  he  sung  of  his 
own)  there  was  an  emphasis  in  poor  Hogg’s  look — expression  of 
feeling,  almost  of  enthusiasm.  The  man  is  a  very  curious  speci¬ 
men.  Alas  !  he  is  a  man ;  yet  how  few  will  so  much  as  treat  him 
like  a  specimen,  and  not  like  a  mere  wooden  Punch  or  Judy  /  For 
the  rest,  our  talk  was  utterly  despicable  :  stupidity,  insipidity, 
even  not  a  little  obscenity  (in  which  all  save  Galt,  Fraser,  and 
myself  seemed  to  join)  was  the  only  outcome  of  the  night.  Liter¬ 
ary  men  !  They  are  not  worthy  to  be  valets  of  such.  Was  a  thing 
said  that  did  not  even  solicit  in  mercy  to  be  forgotton?  Not  so 
much  as  the  attempt  or  wish  to  speak  profitably.  Trivialitas  tri - 
vialitatum,  omnia  trivialitas  !  I  went  to  see,  and  I  saw ;  and  have 
now  said,  and  mean  to  be  silent,  or  try  if  I  can  speak  elsewhere. 

Charles  Buller  entertained  as  unfavourable  an  opinion 
of  London  magazine  writers  as  Carlyle  himself.  Mrs. 


190 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Strackey’s  alarm  about  Buller’s  theories  of  life  may  be 
corrected  by  a  letter  from  himself.  The  B  ullers  were  at 
this  time  at  Looe,  in  Cornwall.  They  came  to  town  in 
October. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Looe  :  September  13,  1831. 

My  dear  Friend, — I  am  very  happy  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Austin 
that  yon  had  called  on  her,  because  I  was  really  anxious  that  you 
should  know  so  admirable  a  specimen  of  the  disciples  of  Bentham 
and  be  known  to  her.  But  I  felt  half  afraid  to  introduce  you 
because  I  did  not  know  how  you  would  get  on  with — not  herself, 
because  she  being  a  Benthamite  has  taken  on  herself  human  form 
and  nature,  and  is  a  most  delightful  specimen  of  the  union  of 
Benthamite  opinions  and  human  feelings — but  with  the  more 
regular  Radicals  who  render  the  approach  to  her  house  danger¬ 
ous.  Conceive  how  great  was  my  pleasure  at  learning  from  her 
that  you  had  called  on  her  ;  that  you  had  come  for  the  purpose 
of  making  acquaintance  with  John  Mill  ;  and  that  you  had  met 
him  to  your  mutual  delight.  I  knew  well  that  to  make  you 
esteem  one  another,  nothing  was  wanting  but  that  you  should 
understand  each  other.  But  I  did  not  do  sufficient  justice  to  the 
Catholicism  of  both  of  you  to  feel  quite  confident  that  this  would 
be  the  certain  effect  of  your  meeting.  In  this  world  of  sects 
people  rarely  talk  to  each  other  for  any  purpose  but  to  find  out 
the  sectarian  names  which  they  may  fasten  on  each  other ;  and 
if  the  name  but  differs,  they  only  spend  their  time  in  finding  out 
the  various  ramifications  of  each  other’s  dissensions.  In  names 
and  professed  doctrines  you  and  John  Mill  differ  as  widely  as  the 
poles  ;  but  you  may  well  meet  on  that  point  where  all  clear  spirits 
find  each  other,  the  love  of  truth,  which  all  must  attain  in  their 
road  to  truth.  To  you  without  any  fear  I  point  out  John  Mill  as 
a  true  Utilitarian,  and  as  one  who  does  honour  to  his  creed  and 
to  his  fellow  believers  ;  because  it  is  a  creed  that  in  him  is  with¬ 
out  sectarian  narrowness  or  unkindness,  because  it  has  not  im¬ 
paired  his  philosophy  or  his  relish  for  the  beautiful,  or  repressed 
any  one  of  those  good  honest  feelings  which  God  gave  all  men 
before  Bentham  made  them  Utilitarians. 

I  am  delighted  at  the  certain  prospect  which  you  hold  out  to 
me  of  seeing  you,  and  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Carlyle. 
I  shall  be  delighted  to  talk  once  more  of  old  times,  and  of  those 


Six  Months  in  London. 


191 


which  are  coming,  to  tell  of  what  we  used  to  do  and  think  to¬ 
gether,  and  of  all  that  we  have  done  and  learned  and  planned  since 
we  have  wandered  many  a  weary  foot  from  one  another.  Thus  I 
shall  learn  from  you  what  are  the  outlines  of  the  great  work  which 
you  are  now  committing  to  the  judgment  of  a  thoughtless  age ; 
and  what  manner  of  life  you  have  been  leading  in  the  North,  and 
what  kind  of  one  you  propose  now.  I,  in  my  turn,  will  tell  you 
of  some  little  time  well  employed,  and  of  much  misspent ;  of  va¬ 
rious  studies,  and  creeds,  and  theories,  of  many  great  designs,  and 
of  a  very  small  portion  of  successful  fulfilment  thereof.  I  will 
tell  you  of  my  assiduous  study  of  the  law,  of  how  the  worthy 
burghers  of  Liskeard  have  come  to  me  and  offered  me  a  seat  for 
this  borough  whenever  the  Keform  Bill  shall  be  passed,  and  of  all 
that  I  propose  to  do  when  I  become  the  most  eminent  of  lawyers 
and  the  most  furious  of  demagogues.  These  matters  I  promise 
myself  to  talk  over  with  you  in  the  city  of  smoke  and  season  of 
fog,  where  I  trust  I  shall  meet  you  in  exactly  a  month. 

I  rejoice  that  you  think  so  highly  of  John  Mill.  I  have  just 
heard  from  him,  and  I  am  happy  that  he  understands  and  esteems 
you,  as  you  do  him.  This  is  as  it  should  be.  I  do  not  see  how  it 
matters  to  one  right-minded  man  in  what  course  the  opinions  of 
another  fly  as  long  as  both  spring  from  the  same  sacred  well  of 
love  of  truth.  I  do  not  believe  that  you  really  differ  very  much 
in  opinion ;  sure  I  am  that  you  will  find  none  of  any  set  of  men 
more  deserving  to  think  rightly  than  John  Mill,  who  thinks  deejfiy 
and  honestly  always.  He  is  very  different  from  the  herd  of  crea¬ 
tures  whom  you  have  been  pestered  with  in  that  great  mart  of 
conceited  folly,  where  the  hawkers  of  every  kind  of  shallowness 
and  quackery  vend  their  wares  in  such  numbers  and  with  such 
clamour.  This  age  is  the  millennium  of  fools.  They  have  cer¬ 
tainly  by  some  means  or  another  obtained  a  mastery  over  better 
men.  I  do  believe  that  in  this  land  of  ours  there  still  exists  the 
good  old  spirit  of  industry,  and  thoughtfulness,  and  honesty  which 
used  to  animate  our  fathers.  Yet  in  literature  we  are  represented 
by  our  magazine  writers  and  reviewers  ( verbo  sit  venia),  and  annals, 
and  fashionable  novels,  and  fashionable  metaphysics  and  i^hilos- 
ophy  :  and  our  concerns  are  managed  by  the  creatures  whom  you 
heard  gabbling  in  the  House  of  Commons  with  a  gravity  and  an 
ignorance  which  are  not  found  combined  even  in  the  servants’ 
hall. 

I  do  believe  with  you  that  the  end  of  this  world  of  Insipids  is 


192 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


coming.  We  must  kick  away  the  distaff  of  Ompkale  and  get  up 
and  bestir  ourselves  to  rid  the  world  of  monsters.  Whether  we 
shall  labour  to  good  purpose,  or  only  show  our  strength  as  Her¬ 
cules  did  in  tearing  ourselves  to  pieces,  it  is  not  yet  given  us  to 
know ;  but  whenever  there  is  a  day  of  awakening,  I  trust  that  all 
good  men  and  true  will  unite  against  the  fools,  and  take  at  least 
30,000  of  them  into  the  valley  of  salt  and  slay  them. 

All  other  matters  I  reserve  for  our  meeting,  which  will  certainly 
take  place  before  long  unless  the  cholera  or  such  like  curse  severs 
us,  or  unless  the  Reform  Bill  is  thrown  out,  in  which  case  I  shall 
assuredly  remain  here  with  any  two  or  three  who  may  be  found  to 
fight  against  the  *  Rotten-hearted  Lords.’  But  there  will  be  more 
than  that ;  almost  as  many  as  there  are  men. 

Adieu  !  with  my  father’s  and  mother’s  and  Arthur’s  best  regards. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Charles  Buller. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


A.D.  1832.  iET.  37. 

A  great  catastrophe  was  now  impending  in  Carlyle’s  life. 
His  father  had  been  ailing  for  more  than  two  years,  some¬ 
times  recovering  a  little,  then  relapsing  again ;  and  after 
each  oscillation  he  had  visibly  sunk  to  a  lower  level.  The 
family  anticipated  no  immediate  danger,  but  he  had  him¬ 
self  been  steadily  contemplating  the  end  as  fast  approach¬ 
ing  him,  as  appears  plainly  from  a  small  feeble  note  which 
had  been  written  on  the  21st  of  September  of  this  year, 
and  remains  fastened  into  his  son’s  note-book,  where  it  is 
endorsed  as  ‘  My  father’s  last  letter — perhaps  the  last  thing 
he  ever  wrote.’ 

My  dear  Sod, — I  cannot  write  you  a  letter,  but  just  tell  you  that 
I  am  a  frail  old  sinner  that  is  very  likely  never  to  see  you  any 
more  in  this  world.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  could  not  help  telling 
you  that  I  feel  myself  gradually  drawing  towards  the  hour  ap¬ 
pointed  for  all  living.  And,  O  God !  may  that  awful  change  be 
much  at  heart  with  every  one  of  us.  May  we  be  daily  dying  to 
sin  and  living  to  righteousness.  And  may  the  God  of  Jacob  be 
with  you  and  bless  you,  and  keep  you  in  his  ways  and  fear.  I  add 
no  more,  but  leave  you  in  his  hands  and  care. 

James  Carlyle.  * 

The  old  man  at  parting  with  his  son  in  the  summer 
gave  him  some  money  out  of  a  drawer  with  the  peculiar 
manner  which  the  Scotch  call  fey — the  sign  of  death  when 
a  man  does  something  which  is  unlike  himself.  Carlyle 
paid  no  particular  attention  to  it,  however,  till  the  mean¬ 
ing  of  the  unusual  action  was  afterwards  made  intelligible 
to  him.  The  reports  frcm  Scotsbrig  in  the  autumn  and 
Vol.  II.— 13 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


11  >4 

<mi*l(y  winter  had  been  more  favourable  than  usual.  On 
l  lie  13th  <d  December  ( 'arlyle  sent  him,  evidently  without 
any  ^roafc  misgiving,  the  last  letter  which  he  on  his  side 
(nor  wrote  to  bis  lather. 

•1  Ampton  Streot,  London:  December  13,  1831. 

IM  y  < lotto  Dither, — I  have  long  proposed  to  myself  the  pleasure 
of  writing  you  ti  letter,  and  must  now  do  it  much  more  hurriedly 
tlwm  I  could  have  wished.  I  did  not  mean  to  undertake  it  till 
next  week,  for  at  present  I  am  engaged  every  moment  against  time, 
[hushing  an  article  for  the  ‘Edinburgh  Review,’ and  can  expect 
no  respite  till  after  Saturday  night.  However,  our  Lord  Advo¬ 
cate  having  called  to  day  and  furnished  me  with  a  frank,  I  em¬ 
brace  the  opportunity  lest  none  so  good  occur  afterwards. 

A  lick  informed  me  in  general  about  ten  days  ago  that  you  were 
•all  well.’  In  the  last  newspaper  1  stood  a  word  from  Jean  that 
she  *  would  write  soon.’  I  can  only  pray  that  she  would  do  so, 
and  hope  in  the  meantime  that  she  may  have  no  worse  news  to 
tell  me.  This  weather  is  very  unhealthy — the  worst  of  the  whole 
year;  I  often  think  how  my  mother  and  you  are  getting  on  under 
it.  I  hope  at  least  you  will  take  every  care,  and  do  not  needlessly 
or  needfully  expose  yourself ;  it  is  bad  policy  to  brave  the  weather, 
especially  for  you  at  this  season.  I  pray  you  keep  much  within 
doors;  beware  of  cold,  especially  of  damp  feet.  A  cup  of  tea 
night  and  morning  1  should  also  think  a  good  preventive.  But 
perhaps  Jean  will  be  able  to  inform  me  that  ‘all  is  well;’  one  of 
the  blessings  1  ought  to  be  most  thankful  for,  as  it  is  among  the 
most  precious  for  me. 

We  are  struggling  forward  here  as  well  as  we  can.  My  health 
is  not  worse  than  it  was  wont  to  bo.  I  think  I  am  even  clearer 
and  fresher  than  when  you  saw  me  last.  Jane  has  been  complain¬ 
ing’ somewhat,  but  is  not  regularly  sick.  Her  cold  has  left  her, 
and  now  she  lias  a  little  occasional  cough  with  weakliness,  the 
like  of  which  is  very  prevalent  here  at  present.  George  Irving  has 
been  attempting  to  prescribe  for  her;  she  even  let  him  draw  a  lit¬ 
tle  blood,  l  rat  her  think,  however,  that  her  faith  in  physicians  is 
somewhat  on  a  level  with  my  own;  that  she  will  give  them  no 
more  of  her  blood,  but  trust  to  exercise,  diet,  and  the  return  of 
settled  weather.  , 

1  Tim  family  still  oommunioated  with  one  another  by  hieroglyphics  on  the 

tiPWdp&poi'd. 


Six  Months  in  London. 


195 


I  cannot  get  on  with  the  publishing  of  my  book.  Nobody  will 
so  much  as  look  at  a  thing  of  the  sort  till  this  Reform  business 
be  done.  Nay,  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  I  shall  at  all  during  the 
present  posture  of  affairs  get  my  speculation  put  into  print.  There 
is  only  a  limited  time  that  I  will  consent  to  wait  looking  after  it. 
If  they  do  not  want  it,  why  then  let  them  leave  it  alone.  Either 
wav  will  do  for  me ;  I  only  want  to  know  which.  Meanwhile  I 
am  making  what  little  attempts  about  it  seem  prudent.  If  I  alto¬ 
gether  fail  here,  I  may  still  liaye  Edinburgh  to  try  in.  One  way 
or  another,  I  wish  to  be  at  the  end  of  it,  and  will  be  so.  Our  Ad- 
yocate,  who  is  now  quite  recovered  again  and  as  brisk  as  a  bee, 
would  fain  do  something  useful  for  me — find  me  some  place  or 
other  that  would  keep  me  here.  I  know  he  has  spoken  of  me  to 
Chancellors  and  Secretaries  of  State,  and  would  take  all  manner 
of  pains ;  nevertheless  I  compute  simply  that  the  result  of  it  all 
will  be — Nothing ;  and  I  still  look  back  to  my  wliinstone  fortress 
among  the  mountains  as  the  stronghold  wherefrom  I  am  to  defy 
the  world.  I  have  applications  enough  for  writing,  some  of  them 
new  since  I  came  hither.  So  long  as  I  can  wag  the  pen  there  is 
no  fear  of  me.  I  also  incline  to  think  that  something  might  and 
perhaps  should  be  done  by  such  as  me  in  the  way  of  lecturing ; 
but  not  at  this  time — not  under  these  circumstances.  We  will 
wait,  and  if  it  seems  good  try  it  again.  On  the  whole  I  always  re¬ 
turn  to  this.  As  the  great  Guide  orders,  so  be  it  !  While  I  can 
say  His  will  be  mine ,  there  is  no  power  in  earth  or  out  of  it  that 
can  put  me  to  fear. 

I  could  describe  our  way  of  life  here,  which  is  very  simple,  had 
I  room.  Plenty  of  people  come  about  us  ;  we  go  out  little  to  any¬ 
thing  like  parties,  never  to  dinners  ;  or  anywhere  willingly  except 
for  profit.  I  transact  sometimes  immense  quantities  of  talk — in¬ 
deed,  often  talk  more  than  I  listen  ;  which  course  I  think  of  alter¬ 
ing.  It  is  and  continues  a  wild  wondrous  chaotic  den  of  discord, 
this  London.  I  am  often  wae  and  awestruck  at  once  to  wander 
along  its  crowded  streets,  and  see  and  hear  the  roaring  torrent  of 
men  and  animals  and  carriages  and  waggons,  all  rushing  they 
know  not  whence,  they  know  not  whither  !  Nevertheless  there  is 
a  deep  divine  meaning  in  it,  and  God  is  in  the  midst  of  it,  had  we 
but  eyes  to  see.  Towards  two  o’clock  I  am  about  laying  down 
my  pen,  to  walk  till  as  near  dinner  (at  four)  as  I  like ;  then  comes 
usually  resting  stretched  on  a  sofa,  with  such  small  talk  as  may 
be  going  till  tea ;  after  which,  unless  some  interloper  drop  in  (as 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


196 

liajDpens  fully  oftener  than  not),  I  again  open  my  desk  and  work 
till  bedtime — about  eleven.  I  have  had  a  tough  struggle  indeed 
with  this  paper  ;  but  my  hand  is  now  in  again,  and  I  am  doing 
better.  Charles  Buller  comes  now  and  then  about  us  ;  a  fine  hon¬ 
est  fellow,  among  the  best  we  see.  There  is  also  one  Glen  (a 
young  unhewed  philosopher,  a  friend  of  Jack’s),  and  one  Mill,  a 
young  hewed  philosopher  and  partial  disciple  of  mine :  both  great 
favourites  here.  W.  Graham,  of  Barnswark,  was  in  our  neigh¬ 
bourhood  for  three  weeks,  and  will  be  arriving  in  Glasgow  again 
about  this  very  night,  unless  he  have  struck  in  by  Ecclefechan 
and  home.  He  is  busy  with  some  American  patents,  and  so  forth ; 
from  which  he  is  sure  of  a  salary  for  one  year,  but  I  think  scarcely 
of  anything  more.  The  American  Consulship,  of  which  he  hoped 
much,  has  gone  another  road.  He  is  fresh  and  healthy,  and  I 
hope  will  fall  in  with  something.  Irving  does  not  come  much 
here ;  only  once  since  that  gift  of  tongues  work  began,  and  we 
have  not  been  even  once  with  him.  It  was  last  week  that  he  called. 
He  looked  hollow  and  haggard ;  thin,  grey-wliiskered,  almost  an 
old  man ;  yet  he  was  composed  and  affectionate  and  patient.  I 
could  almost  have  wept  over  him,  and  did  tell  him  my  mind  with 
all  plainness.  It  seems  likely  they  will  take  his  church  from  him, 
and  then  difficulties  of  all  sorts  may  multiply  on  him ;  but  I  do 
not  think  he  will  altogether  lose  his  wits — at  least  not  so  as  to 
land  in  Bedlam ;  and  perhaps  he  may  yet  see  his  way  through  all 
this,  and  leave  it  all  behind  him.  God  grant  it  be  so.  I  have 
hardly  another  scrap  of  room  here.  I  must  scrawl  my  mother  a 
line,  and  then  bid  you  all  good  night. 

I  remain  always,  my  dear  Father, 

Your  affectionate  Son, 

T.  Carlyle. 

Jolm  Carlyle  was  now  with  Lady  Clare  at  Rome.  To 
him,  busy  as  he  was,  his  brother  continued  to  write  with  anx¬ 
ious  fulness.  John  Carlyle,  with  considerable  talent,  had 
shown  an  instability  of  purpose,  for  which  he  received,  if  he 
did  not  require,  a  steadily  sustained  stream  of  admonition. 

It  was  very  gratifying  to  us  (Carlyle  wrote  on  the  20th  of  De¬ 
cember)  to  learn  that  all  went  tolerably  with  you,  both  as  person 
and  as  doctor ;  continue  to  wish  lionestlv  with  vour  whole  heart 
to  act  rightly,  and  you  will  not  go  far  wrong :  no  other  advice  is 


Six  Months  in  London. 


197 


needed,  or  can  be  given.  I  have  never  despaired,  and  now  I  feel 
more  and  more  certain,  of  one  day  seeing  you  a  man  ;  this  too  in 
a  time  like  ours  when  such  a  result  is  of  all  others  the  hardest  to 
realize.  One  has  to  learn  the  hard  lesson  of  martyrdom ,  and  that 
he  has  arrived  in  this  earth,  not  to  receive ,  but  to  give.  Let  him 
be  ready  then  1  to  spend  and  be  spent  ’  for  God’s  cause  ;  let  him, 
as  ho  needs  must,  ‘  set  his  face  like  a  flint  ’  against  all  dishonesty 
and  indolence  and  puffery  and  quackery  and  malice  and  delusion, 
whereof  earth  is  full,  and  once  for  all  flatly  refuse  to  do  the 
Devil’s  work  in  this  which  is  God’s  earth,  let  the  issue  be  simply 
what  it  may.  ‘  I  must  live,  Sir,’  say  many ;  to  which  I  answer, 
‘  No,  Sir,  you  need  not  live  ;  if  your  body  cannot  be  kept  together 
without  selling  your  soul,  then  let  the  body  fall  asunder,  and  the 
soul  bo  unsold.’  In  brief,  Jack,  defy  the  Devil  in  all  his  figures, 
and  spit  upon  him  ;  he  cannot  hurt  you. 

The  good  old  mother  at  Scotsbrig  was  fluttered  about 
her  scattered  children. 

Our  mother  (wrote  one  of  the  sisters)  has  been  healthier  than 
usual  this  winter,  but  terribly  hadden  down  wi’  anxiety.  She  told 
me  the  other  day  the  first  gaet  she  gaed  every  morning  was  to  Lon¬ 
don,  then  to  Italy,  then  to  Craigenputtock, 1  and  then  to  Mary’s, 
and  finally  began  to  think  them  at  liame  were,  maybe,  no  safer 
than  the  rest.  When  I  asked  her  what  she  wished  me  to  say  to  you, 
she  said  she  had  a  thousand  things  to  say  if  she  had  you  hero ; 

‘  and  thou  may  tell  them,  I’m  very  little  fra’  them.’  You  are  to 
pray  for  us  all  daily,  while  separated  from  one  another,  that  our 
ways  be  in  God’s  keeping.  You  are  also  to  tell  the  Doctor,  when 
you  write,  with  her  love,  that  he  is  to  read  his  Bible  carefully,  and 
not  to  forget  that  God  sees  him  in  whatever  land  he  may  be. 

This  message  Carlyle  duly  sent  on,  and  with  it  the  con¬ 
tinued  diary  of  his  own  doings. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

I  have  had  such  a  bout  as  never  man  had  in  finishing  a  kind  of 
paper  for  Macvey.2  I  called  the  thing  £  Characteristics,’  and  de¬ 
spatched  it,  according  to  engagement,  by  the  Saturday  mail  coach. 

1  Where  Alexander  Carlyle  was  still  staying,  without  the  farm  ;  having 
found  no  other  in  its  place. 

2  Napier,  for  the  Edinburgh,. 


198 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

"Whether  Napier  will  have  it  or  not  is  uncertain  to  me  ;  but  no 
matter,  or  only  a  secondary  one,  for  the  thing  has  some  truth  in 
it,  and  could  find  vent  elsewhere.  It  is  Teufelsdrockli,  and 
preaches  from  this  text  :  ‘  The  healthy  know  not  of  tlieir  health, 
but  only  the  sick.’  As  to  Teufelsdrockli  himself,  hope  has  not 
yet  risen  for  him  ;  nay,  rather,  certainly  begins  to  show  itself  that 
he  has  no  hope.  Glen  read  the  MS.  ‘  with  infinite  satisfaction  ;  ’ 
J ohn  Mill  with  fears  that  ‘  the  world  would  take  some  time  to  see 
what  meaning  was  in  it.’  ‘  Perhaps  all  eternity,’  I  answered.  For 
the  rest  we  have  partially  made  up  our  minds  here  and  see  the 
course  we  have  to  follow.  Preferment  there  is  none  to  be  looked 
for  ;  living  here  by  literature  is  either  serving  the  Devil,  or  fight¬ 
ing  against  him  at  fearful  odds ;  in  lecturing  it  is  also  quite 
clear  there  could  no  profitable  audience  be  had  as  yet,  where 
every  lecturer  is  by  nature  a  quack  and  tinkling  cymbal.  So 
what  will  remain  but  to  thank  God  that  our  whinstone  castle  is 
still  standing  among  the  mountains  ;  and  return  thither  to  work 
there,  till  we  can  make  a  new  sally.  God  be  thanked,  neither  my 
wife  nor  I  am  capable  of  being  staggered  by  any  future  that  the 
world  can  proffer.  £  From  the  bosom  of  eternity  shine  for  us 
radiant  guiding  stars.’  Nay,  our  task  is  essentially  high  and 
glorious  and  happy ;  God  only  give  us  strength  to  do  it  well ! 
Meanwhile,  offers  in  the  literary  periodical  way  come  thick 
enough.  Three  or  four  weeks  ago  Procter  wrote  to  me  that  E.  L. 
Bulwerliad  ‘some  disposition’  to  employ  me  in  the ‘New Monthly 
Magazine,’  of  which  he  is  editor,  and  that  it  would  be  advisable 
for  pie  to  call  on  him  ;  to  which  proposal  of  course  there  could  be 
no  answer,  except  mild  silence — (lev  Inbegriff  oiler  Harmonieen. 
Whereupon  in  ten  days  more  the  mystagogue  of  the  dandiacal 
body  wrote  to  me  a  most  bland  and  euphuistically  flattering  note, 
soliciting  an  interview  as  my  ‘  admirer.’  I  answered  that  for 
some  days  I  was  too  busy  to  calk  but  would  when  I  had  leisure, 
as  I  vesterdav  did  ;  and  found  him'from  home.  I  have  also  looked 
into  his  magazine,  and  find  it  polished,  sharp,  and  barren — yet 
not  ^/together — the  work  as  of  gig-men,  or  rather  gig-bogs  and 
whig- boys  aiming  blindly  enough  towards  something  higher: 
Ahndungen  einer  bessern  Zeit !  My  business  being  to  see  all  men, 
I  will  in  time  look  towards  the  ‘  Inspired  Penman  ’  once  more  and 
ascertain  better  what  his  relation  to  me  really  is.  I  have  articles 
in  my  head,  but  if  Naso  (Napier)  behave  himself  he  shall  have  the 
pick  of  them. 


Six  Months  in  London. 


199 


Napier  unexpectedly  and  even  gratefully  accepted  i  Char¬ 
acteristics.5  He  confessed  that  he  could  not  understand 
it ;  but  everything  which  Carlyle  .wrote,  he  said,  had  the 
indisputable  stamp  of  genius  upon  it,  and  was  therefore 
most  welcome  to  the  4  Edinburgh  Review.5  Ly  tton  Bulwer 
pressed  for  an  article  on  Frederick  the  Great ;  Hayward 
was  anxious  that  a  final  article  should  be  written  on 
Goethe,  to  punish  "Wilson  for  his  outrages  against  the 
great  German  in  the  £  Hoctes  Ambrosianse.5  Hayward, 
too,  had  done  Carlyle  a  still  more  seasonable  service,  for 
he  had  induced  Dr.  Lardner  to  promise  to  take  Carlyle's 
£  History  of  German  Literature  5  for  the  £  Cabinet  Encyclo¬ 
paedia.5  The  articles  on  the  subject  which  had  already 
appeared  were  to  form  part  of  it ;  some  new  matter  was 
to  be  added  to  round  off  the  story  ;  and  the  whole  was  to 
be  bound  up  into  a  Zur  Geschichte ,  for  which  Carlyle  was 
to  receive  300 1.  To  Hayward  then  and  always  he  was 
heartily  grateful  for  this  piece  of  service,  though  eventu- 
ally,  as  will  be  seen,  it  came  to  nothing.  These  brighten¬ 
ing  prospects  were  saddened  by  the  deaths  of  various  em¬ 
inent  persons  whom  he  held  in  honour.  Dr.  Becker  died 
of  cholera  at  Berlin,  then  Hegel  from  cholera  also ;  and 
still  worse,  his  old  friend  Mr.  Stracliey,  whom  he  had  met 
lately  in  full  health,  was  seized  with  inflammation  of  the 
lungs,  and  was  carried  off  in  a  few  days. 

Worst  of  all — the  worst  because  entirely  unlooked  for 
— came  fatal  news  from  Scotebrig,  contained  in  a  sternly 
tender  characteristic  note  from  his  sister  Jean. 

To  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Scotsbrig :  January  22,  1832. 

My  dear  Brother,— It  is  now  my  painful  duty  to  inform  you  that 
our  dear  father  took  what  we  thought  was  a  severe  cold  last  Mon¬ 
day  night ;  he  had  great  difficulty  in  breathing,  but  wTas  always  able 
to  sit  up  most  of  the  day,  and  sometimes  to  walk  about.  Last  night 
he  was  in  the  kitchen  about  six  o’clock,  but  he  was  evidently 


200 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

turning  very  fast  worse  in  breathing.  He  got  only  one  right 
night’s  sleep  since  he  turned  ill,  and  had  been  sometimes  insensi¬ 
ble,  but  when  one  spoke  to  him  he  generally  recollected  himself. 
But  last  night  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  stupor  about  ten  o’clock,  still 
breathing  higher  and  with  greater  difficulty.  He  spoke  little  to 
any  of  us.  Seemingly  unconscious  of  what  he  did,  he  came  over 
the  bedside,  and  offered  up  a  prayer  to  Heaven  in  such  accents  as 
it  is  impossible  to  forget.  He  departed  almost  without  a  struggle 
this  morning  at  half -past  six.  The  funeral  is  to  be  on  Friday ; 
but  my  mother  says  she  cannot  expect  you  to  be  here.  However, 
you  must  write  to  her  directly.  She  needs  consolation,  though 
she  is  not  unreasonable  ;  but  it  was  very  unexpected.  The  Doctor 
durst  do  nothing. .  Oh,  my  dear  brother,  how  often  have  we  writ¬ 
ten  ‘  all  well !  ’  I  cannot  write  more  at  present. 

Your  affectionate  Sister, 

Jean  Carlyle. 

Subjoined  were  these  few  words: — 

It  is  God  that  has  done  it ;  be  still  my  dear  children. 

Your  affectionate  Mother. 


The  common  theme 

Is  death  of  fathers ;  reason  still  hath  cried, 

From  the  first  corse  till  he  that  died  to-day, 

This  must  be  so  ; 

yet  being  so  common,  it  was  still  £  particular  ’  to  Carlyle. 
The  entire  family  were  knit  together  with  an  extremely 
peculiar  bond.  Their  affections,  if  not  limited  within 
their  own  circle,  yet  were  reserved  for  one  another  in  their 
tenderest  form.  Friendship  the  Carlyles  might  have  for 
others ;  their  love  was  for  those  of  their  own  household ; 
while  again,  independently  of  his  feeling  as  a  son,  Carlyle 
saw,  or  believed  he  saw,  in  his  father  personal  qualities  of 
the  rarest  and  loftiest  kind.  Though  the  old  man  had  no 
sense  of  poetry,  Carlyle  deliberate^  says  that  if  he  had 
been  asked  whether  his  father  or  Robert  Burns  had  the 
finest  intellect,  he  could  not  have  answered.  Carlyle’s 


Death  of  James  Carlyle. 


201 


style,  which  has  been  so  much  wondered  at,  was  learnt  in 
the  Annandale  farmhouse ;  and  beyond  the  intellect  there 
was  an  inflexible  integrity,  in  wTord  and  deed,  which  Car¬ 
lyle  honoured  above  all  human  qualities.  The  aspect  in 
which  he  regarded  human  life,  the  unalterable  conviction 
that  justice  and  truth  are  the  only  bases  on  which  success¬ 
ful  conduct,  either  private  or  public,  can  be  safely  rested, 
he  had  derived  from  his  father,  and  it  was  the  root  of  all 
that  was  great  in  himself. 

Being  unable  to  be  present  at  the  funeral,  he  spent  the 
intervening  days  in  composing  the  memoir  which  has  been 
published  as  the  first  of  his  ‘  Beminiscences.’  He  was 
now  himself  the  head  of  the  family,  and  on  him  also  fell 
the  duty  of  addressing  the  remaining  members  of  it  on 
the  loss  which  had  befallen  them. 

As  the  subject  is  c  common,’  so  all  that  can  be  said  upon 
it — the  sorrows,  the  consolations,  and  the  hopes — are  com¬ 
mon  also.  The  greatest  genius  that  ever  was  born  could 
have  nothing  new  to  say  about  death.  Carlyle  could  but 
travel  along  the  well-worn  road ;  yet  what  he  wrote  is  still 
beautiful,  still  characteristic,  though  the  subject  of  it  is 
hackneyed. 

Lon.don  :  January  26,  1832. 

My  dear  Mother, — I  was  downstairs  this  morning  when  I  heard 
the  postman’s  knock,  and  thought  it  might  he  a  letter  from  Scots- 
brig.  Hastening  up,  I  found  Jane  with  the  letter  open  and  in 
tears.  The  next  moment  gave  me  the  stem  tidings.  I  had  writ¬ 
ten  you  yesterday  a  light  hopeful  letter,  which  I  could  now  wish 
you  might  not  read  in  these  days  of  darkness.  Probably  you  will 
receive  it  just  along  with  this ;  the  first  red  seal  so  soon  to  be 
again  exchanged  for  a  black  one.  I  had  a  certain  misgiving,  not 
seeing  Jane’s  customary  ‘  all  well ;  ’  and  I  thought,  but  did  not 
write  (for  I  strive  usually  to  banish  vague  fears),  ‘the  pitcher  goes 
often  to  the  well,  but  it  is  broken  at  last.’  I  did  not  know  that 
this  very  evil  had  actually  overtaken  us. 

As  yet  I  am  in  no  condition  to  write  much.  The  stroke,  all  un¬ 
expected  though  not  undreaded,  as  yet  painfully  crushes  my  heart 


202 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


together.  I  have  yet  hardly  had  a  little  relief  from  tears.  And 
yet  it  will  be  a  solace  to  me  to  speak  out  with  you,  to  repeat  along 
with  you  that  great  saying  which,  could  we  lay  it  rightly  to  heart, 
includes  all  that  man  can  say,  ‘It  is  God  that  has  done  it.’  God 
supports  us  all.  Yes,  my  dear  mother,  it  is  God  has  done  it ;  and 
our  part  is  reverent  submission  to  His  will,  and  trustful  prayers 
to  Him  for  strength  to  bear  us  through  every  trial. 

I  could  have  wished,  or  I  had  too  confidently  hoped,  that  God 
had  ordered  it  otherwise  ;  but  what  are  our  wishes  and  wills  ?  I 
trusted  that  I  might  have  had  other  glad  meetings  and  pleasant 
communings  with  my  honoured  and  honourworthy  father  in  this 
world,  but  it  was  not  so  appointed.  We  shall  meet  no  more  till 
we  meet  in  that  other  sphere  where  God’s  Presence  more  immedi¬ 
ately  is ;  the  nature  of  which  we  know  not,  only  we  know  that  it 
is  God’s  appointing,  and  therefore  altogether  good.  Hay,  already, 
had  we  but  faith,  our  father  is  not  parted  from  us,  but  only  with¬ 
drawn  from  our  bodily  eyes.  The  dead  and  the  living,  as  I  often 
repeat  to  myself,  are  alike  with  God.  He,  fearful  and  wonderful, 
yet  good  and  infinitely  gracious,  encircles  alike  both  them  that 
we  see  and  them  that  we  cannot  see.  Yvhoso  trustetli  in  Him  has 
obtained  the  victory  over  death  ;  the  King  of  Terrors  is  no  longer 
terrible. 

Yes,  my  dear  mother,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  let  us  see  also 
how  mercy  has  been  mingled  with  our  calamity.  Death  was  for  a 
long  time  ever  present  to  our  father’s  thought ;  daily  and  hourly 
he  seemed  meditating  on  his  latter  end.  The  end,  too,  appears  to 
have  been  mild  as  it  was  speedy  ;  he  parted  as  gently  as  most  do 
from  this  vale  of  tears ;  and,  oh  !  in  his  final  agony  he  was  en¬ 
abled  to  call  with  his  strong  voice  and  strong  heart  on  the  God 
that  had  made  him  to  have  mercy  on  him  !  Which  prayer,  doubt 
not  one  of  you,  the  All-merciful  heard ,  and,  in  such  wise  as  infinite 
mercy  might,  gave  answer  to.  And  what  is  the  death  of  one  near 
to  us,  as  I  have  often  thought,  but  the  setting  out  on  a  journey  an 
hour  before  us,  which  journGy  we  have  all  to  travel?  What  is  the 
longest  earthly  life  to  the  eternity,  the  endless,  the  beginningless 
which  encircles  it  ?  The  oldest  man  and  the  new-born  babe  are 
bat  divided  from  each  other  by  a  single  hair’s  breadth.  For  my¬ 
self,  I  have  long  continually  meditated  on  death  till  by  God’s 
grace  it  has  grown  transparent  for  me,  and  holy  and  great  rather 
than  terrific  ;  till  I  see  that  death,  what  mortals  call  death,  is 
properly  the  beginning  of  life.  One  other  comfort  we  have  to 


203 


Death  of  James  Carlyle. 

take  the  bitterness  out  of  our  tears — this  greatest  of  all  comforts, 
and  properly  the  only  one :  that  our  father  was  not  called  away 
till  he  had  done  his  work,  and  done  it  faithfully.  Yes,  we  can 
with  a  holy  pride  look  at  our  father  there  where  he  lies  low,  and 
say  that  his  task  was  well  and  manfully  performed  ;  the  strength 
that  God  had  given  him  he  put  forth  in  the  ways  of  honesty  and 
well-doing  ;  no  eye  will  ever  see  a  hollow,  deceitful  work  that  he 
did ;  the  world  wants  one  true  man  since  he  was  taken  awav. 
When  we  consider  his  life,  through  what  hardships  and  obstructions 
he  struggled,  and  what  he  became  and  what  he  did,  there  is  room 
for  gratitude  that  God  so  bore  him  on.  Oh,  what  were  it  now  to 
us  that  he  had  been  a  king  ?  now,  when  the  question  is  not,  What 
wages  hadst  thou  for  thy  work  ?  but,  How  was  thy  work  done  ? 

My  dear  brothers  and  sisters,  sorrow  not,  I  entreat  you — sorrow 
is  profitless  and  sinful ;  but  meditate  deeply  every  one  of  you  mi 
this  :  none  of  us  but  started  in  life  with  far  greater  advantages 
than  our  dear  father  had  ;  we  will  not  weep  for  him,  but  we  will 
go  and  do  as  he  has  done.  Could  I  write  my  books  as  he  built 
his  houses,  and  walk  my  way  so  manfully  through  this  shadow 
world,  and  leave  it  with  so  little  blame,  it  were  more  than  all  my 
hopes.  Neither  are  you,  my  beloved  mother,  to  let  your  heart  be 
heavy.  Faithfully  you  toiled  by  his  side,  bearing  and  forbearing 
as  you  both  could.  All  that  was  sinful  and  of  the  earth  has 
passed  away;  all  that  was  true  and  holy  remains  for  ever,  and 
the  parted  shall  meet  together  again  with  God.  Amen  !  so  be  it  ! 
We,  your  children,  whom  you  have  faithfully  cared  for,  soul  &sd 
body,  and  brought  up  in  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord, 
we  gather  round  you  in  this  solemn  hour,  and  say,  Be  of  comfort ! 
wTell  done,  hitherto  ;  persevere  and  it  shall  be  well !  We  promise 
here,  before  God,  and  the  awful  yet  merciful  work  of  God’s  hand, 
that  we  will  continue  tq>  love  and  honour  you,  as  sinful  children 
can.  And  now,  do  you  pray  for  us  all,  and  let  us  all  pray  in  such 
language  as  we  have  for  one  another,  so  shall  this  sore  division 
and  parting  be  the  means  of  a  closer  union.  Let  us  and  everyone 
know  that  though  this  world  is  full  of  briars,  and  we  are  wounded 
at  every  step  as  we  go,  and  one  by  one  must  take  farewell  and  weep 
bitterly,  yet  ‘  there  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of  God.’  Yes, 
for  the  people  of  God  there  remaineth  a  rest,  that  rest  which  in 
this  world  they  could  nowhere  find. 

And  now  again  I  say,  do  not  grieve  any  one  of  you  beyond  what 
nature  forces  and  you  cannot  help.  Pray  to  God,  if  any  of  you 


204 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


have  a  voice  and  utterance;  all  of  yon  pray  always,  in  secret  and 
silence — if  faithful,  ye  shall  be  heard  openly.  I  cannot  be  with 
you  to  speak,  but  read  in  the  Scriptures  as  I  would  have  done. 
Eead,  I  esjDecially  ask,  in  Matthew’s  Gospel,  that  passion,  and 
death,  and  farewell  blessing  and  command  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth ; 
and  see  if  you  can  understand  and  feel  what  is  the  ‘  divine  depth 
of  sorrow,’  and  how  even  by  suffering  and  sin  man  is  lifted  up 
to  God,  and  in  great  darkness  there  shines  a  light.  If  you  cannot 
read  it  aloud  in  common,  then  do  each  of  you  take  his  Bible  in 
private  and  read  it  for  himself.  Our  business  is  not  to  lament, 
but  to  improve  the  lamentable,  and  make  it  also  peaceably  work 
together  for  greater  good. 

I  could  have  wished  much  to  lay  my  honoured  father’s  head  in 
the  grave ;  yet  it  could  have  done  no  one  good  save  myself  only, 
afid  I  shall  not  ask  for  it.  Indeed,  when  I  remember,  that  right 
would  have  belonged  to  John  of  Cockermoutli,  to  whom  I  offer  in 
all  heartiness  my  brotherly  love.  I  will  be  with  you  in  spirit  if 
not  in  person.  I  have  given  orders  that  no  one  is  to  be  admitted 
here  till  after  the  funeral  on  Friday.  I  mean  to  spend  these  hours 
in  solemn  meditation  and  self-examination,  and  thoughts  of  the 
Eternal ;  such  seasons  of  grief  are  sent  us  even  for  that  end.  God 
knocks  at  our  heart :  the  question  (is),  will  we  open  or  not  ?  I 
shall  think  every  night  of  the  candle  burning  in  that  sheeted 
room,  where  our  dear  sister  also  lately  lay.  Oh  God,  be  gracious 
to  us,  and  bring  us  all  one  day  together  in  himself  !  After  Friday 
I  return,  as  you  too  must,  to  my  worldly  work ;  for  that,  also,  is 
work  appointed  us  by  the  heavenly  taskmaster.  I  will  write  to 
John  to-night  or  to-morrow.  Let  me  hear  from  you  again  as  soon 
as  you  have  composure.  I  shall  hasten  all  the  more  homewards 
for  this.  For  the  present,  I  bid  God  ever  bless  you  all !  Pray  for 
me,  my  dear  mother,  and  let  us  all  seek  consolation  there. 

I  am  ever,  your  affectionate, 

T.  Caelyle. 

The  promised  letter  to  liis  brother  was  written,  and  lies 
before  .me ;  hut  a  few  sentences  only  need  he  extracted 
from  what  is  essentially  a  repetition  of  the  last. 

Our  father’s  end  was  happy ;  he  had  lived  to  do  all  his  work, 
and  he  did  it  manfully.  His  departure,  too,  was  soft  and  speedy ; 
that  last  strong  cry  of  his  in  the  death-struggle  to  God  for  deliv¬ 
erance,  that  is  one  of  the  things  we  must  remember  for  ever.  Was 


Death  of  James  Carlyle . 


205 


it  not  the  fit  end  of  a  life  so  true  and  brave  ?  For  a  true  and 
brave  man,  such  as  there  are  too  few  left,  I  must  name  my  father. 
If  we  think  what  an  element  he  began  in,  how  he  with  modest  un¬ 
wearied  endeavour  turned  all  things  to  the  best,  and  what  a  little 
world  of  good  he  had  created  for  himself,  we  may  call  his  life  an 
honourable,  a  noble  one.  In  some  respects  there  is  perhaps  no 
man  like  him  left.  Jane  and  I  were  just  remarking  two  days  ago 
that  we  did  not  know  any  man  whose  spiritual  faculties  had  such 
a  stamp  of  natural  strength.  Alas !  we  knew  not  that  already  he 
was  hidden  from  our  eyes.  I  call  such  a  man,  bred  up  in  poor 
Annandale,  with  nothing  but  what  the  chances  of  poor  Annandale 
gave  him,  the  true  preacher  of  a  gospel  of  freedom — of  what  men 
.can  do  and  be.  Let  his  memory  be  for  ever  holy  to  us :  let  us 
each  in  his  several  sphere  go  and  do  likewise. 

For  myself,  death  is  the  most  familiar  of  all  thoughts  to  me^-my 
daily  and  hourly  companion.  Death  no  longer  seems  terrible  ;  and 
though  the  saddest  remembrances  rise  round  you,  and  natural  grief 
will  have  its  course,  we  can  say  with  our  heroic  mother  :  ‘  It  is  God 
that  has  done  it.’  Death  properly  is  but  a  hiding  from  us,  from  our 
fleshly  organs.  The  departed  are  still  with  us  ;  are  not  both  they 
and  we  in  the  hand  of  God?  A  little  while  and  we  shall  all  meet ; 
nay,  perhaps  see  one  another  again  !  As  God  will !  He  is  great ;  He 
is  also  good.  There  we  must  leave  it,  weep  and  murmur  as  we  will. 

I  feel,  my  dear  brother,  how  this  stroke  must  x>ain  you.  Sx>eak 
of  it  as  we  may,  death  is  a  stern  event ;  yet  also  a  great  and  sacred 
one.  How  holy  are  the  dead !  They  do  rest  from  their  labours, 
and  their  works  follow  them.  A  whole  section  of  the  x>ast  seems 
departed  with  my  father — shut  out  from  me  by  an  impassable  bar¬ 
rier.  He  could  tell  me  about  old  things,  and  was  wont  most 
grax>hically  to  do  so  when  I  went  to  Scotsbrig.  Now  he  will  do. 
so  no  more  :  it  is  past,  x:>ast !  The  force  that  dwelt  in  him  had 
exx>ended  itself ;  he  is  lost  from  our  eyes  in  that  ocean  of  time 
Wherein  our  little  islet  of  existence  hangs  susx^ended,  ever  crum¬ 
bling  in,  ever  anew  bodying  itself  forth.  Fearful  and  wonderful ! 
Yet  let  us  know  that  under  time  lies  eternity ;  if  we  ax^ear  and 
are  (while  here)  in  time  and  through  time,  which  means  change, 
mortality,  we  also  stand  rooted  in  eternity,  where  there  is 
no  change,  no  mortality.  Be  of  comfort,  then ;  be  of  courage  ! 
‘The  fair  flowers  of  our  garland,’  said  Novalis,  ‘are  dipping  oft’ 
here  one  by  one,  to  be  united  again  yonder  fairer  and  forever.’ 
Let  it  be  so,  please  God.  His  will,  not  ours,  be  done  ! 


206  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

4  Ampton  Street :  January  30, 

My  dear  Mother, — I  have  determined  to  write  you  a  few  lines 
to-day,  my  mind,  and  I  trust  yours  also,  being  in  a  state  of  com¬ 
posure  ;  though  there  is  specially  nothing  more  to  be  said,  the 
very  sound  of  my  voice  will  do  you  good. 

Since  I  wrote  last  I  have  been  in  Scotsbrig  more  than  in  Lon¬ 
don  ;  the  tumult  of  this  chaos  has  rolled  past  me  as  a  sound,  all 
empty,  with  which  I  had  nothing  to  do.  My  thought  wTas  in  the 
house  of  mourning,  present  with  you  and  with  the  departed.  We 
had  excluded  all  external  communication  from  us  till  the  funeral 
should  be  passed.  I  dwelt  with  my  deceased  father.  Our  whole 
speech  and  action  was  of  high  solemn  matters.  I  walked  out 
alone  or  with  my  wife,  meditating,  peaceably  conversing  of  that 
great  event.  I  have  reason  to  be  very  thankful  that  much  com¬ 
posure  has  been  vouchsafed  me.  I  never  so  saw  my  honoured 
father  and  his  earnest,  toilsome,  manful  life  as  now  when  he  was 
gone  from  me ;  I  never  so  loved  him,  and  felt  as  if  his  spirit  were 
still  living  in  me — as  if  my  life  was  but  a  continuation  of  his,  and 
to  be  led  in  the  same  valiant  spirit  that  in  a  quite  other  sphere  so 
distinguished  him.  Be  the  great  Father  thanked  for  His  good¬ 
ness  ;  chiefly  for  this,  if  He  have  given  us  any  light  and  faith,  to 
discern  and  reverence  His  mysterious  ways,  and  how  from  the 
depths  of  grief  itself  there  rises  mildly  a  holy  eternal  joy. 

Edward  Irving  on  sending  up  his  name  wras  admitted  to  me  on 
Friday  afternoon.  His  wife  was  with  him.  He  prayed  with  us  I 
think  about  the  time  they  would  be  in  the  churchyard.  I  felt 
that  he  meant  kindly ;  yet  cannot  say  that  either  his  prayer  or  his 
conversation  worked  otherwise  on  me  than  disturbingly.  I  had 
partly  purposed  sending  for  him,  but  was  then  thankful  I  had  not 
done  it.  His  whole  mind  is  getting  miserably  crippled  and  weak¬ 
ened  ;  his  insane  babble  about  his  tongues  and  the  like  were  for 
me  like  froth  to  the  hungry  and  thirsty.  My  father  was  a  Man, 
and  should  be  mourned  for  like  a  man.  We  had  to  forget  our 
well-meaning  visitors,  and  again  take  counsel  with  ourselves,  and 
I  trust  with  the  God  that  dwells  in  us — were  this  last  done  only 
in  silence.  My  father’s  memory  has  become  very  holy  to  me  ;  not 
sorrowful,  but  great  and  instructive.  I  could  repeat,  though  with 
tears  yet  with  softly  resolved  heart,  ‘  Blessed  are  the  dead  that 
die  in  the  Lord ;  they  do  rest  from  their  labours,  and  their  works 


Death  of  James  Carlyle. 


207 


follow  them.’  Yes,  their  works  are  not  lost ;  no  grain  of  truth 
that  was  in  them  but  belongs  to  eternity  and  cannot  die. 

Jane  faithfully  bore  and  suffered  with  me.  We  spoke  much. 
I  trust  that  she,  too,  is  one  day  to  4  become  perfect  through  suf¬ 
fering,’  and  even  in  this  earth  to  struggle  unweariedly  towards 
perfection  as  towards  the  one  thing  needful.  We  talked  of  death 
and  life,  with  the  significance  of  each ;  of  the  friends  we  had  lost ; 
of  the  friends  still  mercifully  left  us,  and  the  duties  we  owed  to 
them.  In  our  two  fathers  we  found  a  great  similarity  with  so 
much  outward  difference.  Both  were  true  men,  such  as  the  world 
has  not  many  to  show  now ;  both  faithfully  laboured  according  to 
their  calling  in  God’s  vineyard  (which  this  world  is) ;  both  are 
now  in  the  land  of  truth  and  light,  while  we  still  toil  in  that  of 
falsehood  and  shadows.  A  little  while,  and  we  too  4  shall  real)  if 
we  faint  not.’  Of  the  other  world  it  seems  to  me  we  do  know 
this,  and  this  only :  that  it  too  is  God’s  world ;  and  that  for  us 
and  for  our  buried  ones  He  hath  done,  and  will  do,  all  things  well. 
Let  us  rest  here ;  it  is  the  anchor  of  the  soul  both  sure  and  stead¬ 
fast  ;  other  safety  there  is  none. 

To  you  also,  my  dear  mother,  I  trust  the  call  has  not  been 
made  in  vain.  I  know  that  you  have  borne  yourself  with  heroism, 
for  you  have  the  true  strength  in  you.  Sad,  doubtless,  will  your 
mood  long  be — sadder,  perhaps,  than  ours,  than  mine.  Your  loss 
is  the  keenest.  The  companion  that  had  pilgrimed  by  your  side 
for  seven  and  thirty  years  is  suddenly  called  away.  Looking  on 
that  hand  you  now  see  yourself  alone.  Not  alone,  dear  mother,  if 
God  be  with  you  !  Your  children  also  are  still  round  you  to  bear 
up  your  declining  years,  to  protect  and  support  you,  to  love  you 
with  the  love  we  owed  bath  our  parents.  Oh,  Providence  is  very 
merciful  to  us ! 

Neither  let  any  one  of  us  looking  back  on  the  departed  mourn 
uselessly  over  our  faults  towards  him,  as  in  all  things  we  err  and 
come  short.  How  holy  are  the  dead  !  How  willingly  we  take  all 
the  blame  on  ourselves  which  in  life  we  were  so  willing  to  divide  ! 
I  say,  let  us  not  lament  and  afflict  ourselves  over  these  things. 
They  were  of  the  earth  earthy.  Now  he  has  done  with  them ; 
they  do  him  (nay,  except  for  his  own  earthly  sinfulness,  they  did 
him)  no  evil.  Let  us  remember  only,  one  and  all  of  us,  this 
truth,  and  lay  it  well  to  heart  in  our  whole  conduct :  that  the  liv¬ 
ing  also  will  one  day  be  dead  ! 

On  the  whole,  it  is  for  the  living  only  that  we  are  called  to  live 


208 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

— ‘  to  work  while  it  is  still  to-day.’  We  will  dismiss  vain  sorrows, 
and  address  ourselves  with  new  heart  and  purer  endeavour  to  the 
tasks  appointed  us  in  life.  Forward  !  forward  !  Let  us  do  more 
faithfully  than  ever  what  yet  remains  to  be  done.  All  else  is  un¬ 
profitable  and  a  wasting  of  our  strength. 

We  two  are  purposing  to  come  homeward  early  in  March,  and 
shall  most  likely  come  to  Scotsbrig  first.  I  have  (or  found  I  had 
already)  as  good  as  concluded  that  bargain  about  the  ‘  Literary 
History.’  I  have  a  paper  on  Johnson  to  write,  and  many  little 
odds  and  ends  to  adjust ;  after  which  we  seem  to  have  no  business 
to  do  here,  afid  shall  march  and  leave  it  for  the  time.  For  myself, 
I  fear  not  the  world,  or  regard  it  a  jot,  except  as  the  great  task- 
garden  of  the  Highest ;  wherein  I  am  called  to  do  whatever  work 
the  Task-master  of  men  (wise  are  they  that  can  hear  and  obey 
Him)  shall  please  to  appoint  me.  What  are  its  frowns  or  its 
favours?  What  are  its  difficulties  and  falsehoods  and  hollow 
threatenings  to  me  ?  With  the  spirit  of  my  father  I  will  front 
them  and  conquer  them.  Let  us  fear  nothing;  only  being  the 
slaves  of  sin  and  madness  :  these  are  the  only  real  slaves. 

Jane  is  out,  or  she  would  have  sent  you  her  blessing,  her  affec¬ 
tion.  She  is  distinctly  growing  better,  and  I  hope  will  have  re¬ 
covered  her  usual  strength  ere  long.  Perhaps  she  too  needed 
affliction,  as  which  of  us  does  not  ?  Remember  us  always,  as  we 
do  you.  God  ever  bless  you  all. 

I  remain,  dear  mother,  your  affectionate  son, 

T.  Cablyle. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Rome. 

4  Ampton  Street :  February  16,  1833. 

.  .  .  I  wrote  copiously  twice  to  our  mother.  A  letter  has 

since  come  full  of  composure  and  peace.  The  survivors,  our 
mother  in  particular,  are  all  well,  and  knit  the  closer  for  this 
breach  among  them.  Jamie,1  it  seems,  as  I  had  partly  advised 
him,  makes  worship  regularly  in  the  household  ;  Alick  has  prom¬ 
ised  to  do  the  like  in  his.  John  of  Cockermoutli2  parted  from 
them  at  Burnfoot,  exhorting  them  with  affectionate  tears  in  his 
eyes  to  live  all  united,  as  they  had  heretofore  done,  and  mindful 
and  worthy  of  the  true  man  whose  name  they  bore.  Thus  has  the 
scene  in  mild  solemnity  closed.  When  the  news  first  reached  me 
I  sat  silent  some  minutes,  the  word  ‘  reXos !  ’  pealing  mournfully 
1  The  youngest  brother. 

a  The  half  brother.  Only  son  of  Mr.  James  Carlyle’s  first  marriage. 


Six  Months  in  London . 


209 


through  my  heart  till  tears  and  sobs  gave  me  relief.  Death  has 
long  been  hourly  present  with  me  ;  I  have  long  learned  to  look 
upon  it  as  properly  the  beginning  of  life  ;  its  dark  curtain  grows 
more  and  more  transparent ;  the  departed,  I  think,  are  only  hid¬ 
den — they  are  still  here.  Both  they  and  we,  as  I  often  repeat, 
‘are  with  God.’  I  wrote  down  in  my  note-book  all  that  I  could 
remember  as  remarkable  about  my  father ;  his  life  grew  wonder¬ 
fully  clear  to  me,  almost  like  the  first  stage  of  my  own.  I  had  great 
peace  and  satisfaction  in  thinking  of  him.  Let  us  in  our  wider 
sphere  live  worthy  of  a  father  so  true  and  so  brave ;  hope  too  that  in 
some  inscrutable  way  an  eternal  re-union  is  appointed  us,  for  with 
God  nothing  is  impossible  ;  at  all  events,  ‘  that  He  will  do  all  things 
well.’  Therein  lies  the  anchorage  that  cannot  prove  deceitful. 

Your  last  letter  seemed  to  me  the  best  I  had  ever  got  from  you 
-—perhaps  among  the  best  I  have  ever  got  from  any  one.  There 
is  so  much  heartiness  and  earnestness  ;  the  image  of  a  mind  hon¬ 
estly,  deeply  labouring,  in  a  healthy  and  genuine  position  towards 
nature  and  men.  Continue  in  that  right  mood ;  strive  unweariedly, 
and  all  that  is  yet  wanting  will  be  given  you.  Go  on  and  prosper. 
Klarheit ,  Reinheit ,  ‘  Im  Ganzen ,  Guten ,  Wahren  resolut  zu  leben .’  This 
is  all  that  man  wants  on  earth  ;  even  as  of  old,  ‘  the  one  thing  need¬ 
ful.’  Well  do  I  understand,  my  dear  brother,  those  thoughts  of 
yours  on  the  Pincian  Hill.1  They  tore  my  inward  man  in  pieces 
for  long  years,  and  literally  well  nigh  put  an  end  to  my  life,  till 
by  Heaven’s  great  grace  I  got  the  victory  over  them — nay,  changed 
them  into  precious  everlasting  possessions.  I  wish  you  could  have 
read  my  book  2  at  this  time,  for  it  turns  precisely  (in  its  way)  on 
these  very  matters ;  in  the  paper  ‘  Characteristics  ’  also,  some  of 
my  latest  experiences  and  insights  are  recorded ;  these  I  still  hope 
you  will  soon  see.  Meanwhile  be  not  for  a  moment  discouraged  ; 
for  the  victory  is  certain  if  you  desire  it  honestly  ;  neither  imagine 
that  it  is  by  forgetting  such  high  questions  that  you  are  to  have 
them  answered.  Unless  one  is  an  animal  they  cannot  be  forgot¬ 
ten.  This  also  however  is  true,  that  logic  will  never  resolve  such 
things  ;  the  instinct  of  logic  is  to  say  No.  Remember  always  that 
the  deepest  truth,  the  truest  of  all,  is  actually  ‘unspeakable,’  can¬ 
not  be  argued  of,  dwells  far  below  the  region  of  articulate  demon¬ 
stration  ;  it  must  be  felt  by  trial  and  indubitable  direct  experience ; 
then  it  is  known  once  and  for  ever.  I  wish  I  could  have  speech  of 

1  Relating  to  religious  difficulties,  of  the  usual  kind. 

2  Sartor  Resartus. 

Von.  II.— 14 


210 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


you  from  time  to  time ;  perhaps  I  might  disentangle  some  things 
for  you.  Yet  after  all  the  victory  must  be  gained  by  oneself.  4  Dir 
auch  gelingt  es  Dich  durchzuarbeiten .’  I  will  here  only  mention  a 
practical  maxim  or  two  which  I  have  found  of  chief  advantage. 
First,  I  would  have  you  know  this :  that  4  doubt  of  any  sort  can 
only  be  removed  by  action .’  But  what  to  act  on?  you  cry.  I  an¬ 
swer  again  in  the  words  of  Goethe,  4  Do  the  duty  which  lies  near¬ 
est  ;  ’  do  it  (not  merely  pretend  to  have  done  it) ;  the  next  duty 
will  already  have  become  clear  to  thee.  There  is  great  truth  here ; 
in  fact  it  is  my  opinion,  that  he  who  (by  whatever  means)  has  ever 
seen  into  the  infinite  nature  of  duty  has  seen  all  that  costs  diffi¬ 
culty.  The  universe  has  then  become  a  temple  for  him,  and  the 
divinity  and  all  the  divine  things  thereof  will  infallibly  become 
revealed.  To  the  same  purport  is  this  saying,  die  hohe  Bedeutung 
des  Entsagens,  once  understand  entsagen ,  then  life  eigentlich  beginnt. 
You  may  also  meditate  on  these  words,  4  the  divine  depth  of  sor¬ 
row,’  4  the  sanctuary  of  sorrow.’  To  me  they  have  been  full  of 
significance.  But  on  the  whole,  dear  brother,  study  to  clear  your 
heart  from  all  selfish  desire,  that  free  will  may  arise  and  reign  ab¬ 
solute  in  you.  True  vision  lies  in  thy  heart ;  it  is  by  this  that  the 
eye  sees,  or  for-ever  only  fancies  that  it  sees.  Do  the  duty  that 
lies  there  clear  at  hand.  I  must  not  spend  your  whole  sheet  in 
preaching,  and  will  add  only  this  other  precept,  which  I  find  more 
important  every  day  I  live.  Avoid  all  idle,  untrue  talk,  as  you 
would  the  pestilence.  It  is  the  curse  and  all-deforming,  all-chok¬ 
ing  leprosy  of  these  days.  For  health  of  mind  I  have  the  clearest 
belief  that  there  is  no  help  except  in  this  which  I  have  been  in¬ 
culcating  in  you  :  action — religious  action.  If  the  mind  is  culti¬ 
vated,  and  cannot  take  in  religion  by  the  old  vehicle,  a  new  one 
must  be  striven  after.  In  this  point  of  view  German  literature  is 
quite  priceless.  I  never  cease  to  thank  Heaven  for  such  men  as 
Richter,  Schiller,  Goethe.  The  latter  especially  was  my  evangel¬ 
ist.  His  works,  if  you  study  them  with  due  earnestness,  are  as  the 
day-spring  visiting  us  in  the  dark  night.  Perhaps  Lady  Clare  may 
profit  much  by  them — only  keep  away  dilettantism  ;  sweep  it  out 
of  being;  this  is  no  world  for  it ;  this  is  no  revelation  of  a  world 
for  it.  Among  Goethe’s  admirers  here  I  find  no  one  possessed  of 
almost  the  smallest  feeling  of  what  lies  in  him.  They  have  eyes 
but  see  not,  hearts  but  understand  not ;  as  indeed  the  whole  world 
almost  has.  Let  them  go  their  way,  do  thou  go  thin9. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


A.  D.  1832.  JET.  37. 

A  few  weeks  only  now  remained  of  Carlyle’s  stay  in  Lon¬ 
don.  The  great  change  at  Scotsbrig  recommended,  and  per¬ 
haps  required,  his  presence  in  Scotland.  Ilis  brother  Alick 
had  finally  left  Craigenputtock  to  settle  on  a  farm  else¬ 
where,  and  the  house  on  the  moor  could  not  be  left  unpro¬ 
tected.  In  London  itself  he  had  nothing  further  to  detain 
him.  He  had  failed  in  the  object  which  had  chiefly  brought 
him  there.  ‘  Sartor  Resartus’ had  to  lie  unpublished  in 
his  desk.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  made  new  and  val¬ 
uable  acquaintances — John  Mill,  Leigh  Hunt,  Hayward, 
Lytton  Bulwer — for  the  first  three  of  whom  at  least  he  en¬ 
tertained  considerable  respect.  He  had  been  courted  more 
than  ever  by  magazines.  Owing  to  the  effect  of  his  per¬ 
sonal  presence,  he  had  as  much  work  before  him  as  he 
was  able  to  undertake,  and  by  Hayward’s  help  Dr.  Lardner 
was  likely  to  accept  on  favourable  terms  his  ‘  Literary  His¬ 
tory.’  He  had  learnt,  once  for  all,  that  of  promotion  to» 
any  fixed  employment  there  was  no  hope  for  him.  Litera¬ 
ture  was  and  was  to  be  the  task  of  his  life.  But  the  doubt 
of  being  able  to  maintain  himself  honourably  by  it  was 
apparently  removed.  His  thrifty  farmhouse  habits  made 
the  smallest  certain  income  sufficient  for  his  wants.  His 
wife  had  parted  cheerfully  with  the  luxuries  in  which  she 
had  been  bred,  and  was  the  most  perfect  of  economical 
stewardesses.  His  brother  John  was  now  in  circumstances 
to  repay  the  cost  of  his  education,  and  thus  for  two  years 
at  least  he  saw  his  way  clearly  before  him.  Some  editor- 


212 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


ship  or  share  of  editorship  might  have  been  attainable  had 
he  cared  to  seek  such  a  thing ;  but  the  conditions  of  the 
London  literary  profession  disinclined  him  to  any  close 
connection  with  it ;  and  he  had  adjusted  his  relations  with 
Napier,  Fraser,  Lytton  Bulwer,  and  the  rest,  on  terms 
more  satisfactory  to  himself  than  complimentary  to  them. 
With  Napier  he  was  on  a  really  pleasant  footing.  The 
4  Characteristics ’  had  been  published  without  a  word  being 
altered  or  omitted.  lie  liked  Napier,  and  excepted  him 
from  his  general  censures.  He  was  now  writing  his  re¬ 
view  of  Croker’s  ‘  Life  of  Johnson,’  which  he  had  prom¬ 
ised  Fraser  as  the  last  piece  of  work  which  he  was  to  do 
in  London.  4  This  is  the  way  that  I  have  adjusted  my¬ 
self,’  he  wrote.  4 1  say  will  you  or  your  dog’s  carrion  cart 
take  this  article  of  mine  and  sell  it  unchanged  ?  With  the 
carrion  cart  itself  I  have  and  can  have  no  personal  concern.’ 
4  For  Fraser  I  am  partly  bound  as  to  this  piece  on  John¬ 
son.  Bulwer,  if  he  want  anything  on  similar  terms,  and 
I  feel  unoccupied,  shall  have  it ;  otherwise  not  he.’  In 
such  scornful  humour  he  prepared  to  retreat  once  more 
for  another  two  years  to  his  whinstone  castle,  and  turn 
his  back  on  London  and  the  literary  world. 

My  attitude  towards  literary  London,  lie  said  in  a  letter  to  John 
(February  18),  is  almost  exactly  wliat  I  could  wish  ;  great  respect, 
even  love,  from  some  few  ;  much  matter  of  thought  given  me  for 
instruction  and  high  edification  by  the  very  baseness  and  ignorance 
of  the  many.  I  dined  at  Magazine  Fraser’s  some  five  weeks  ago; 
saw  Lockhart,  Galt,  Cunningham,  Hogg.  Galt  has  since  sent  me 
a  book  (new,  and  worth  little)  ;  he  is  a  broad  gawsie  Greenock 
man,  old-growing,  lovable  with  pity  ;  Lockhart  a  dandiacal,  not 
without  force,  but  barren  and  unfruitful ;  Hogg,  utterly  a  singing 
goose,  whom  also  I  pitied  and  loved.  The  conversation  was  about 
the  basest  I  ever  assisted  in.  The  Scotch  here  afterwards  got  up 
a  brutish  thing  by  'way  of  a  ‘  Burns  dinner,’  which  has  since  been 
called  the  ‘  Hogg  dinner,’  to  the  number  of  500 ;  famished  glut¬ 
tony,  quackery,  and  stupidity  were  the  elements  of  the  work, 


213 


London  Men  of  Letters . 

which  has  been  laughed  at  ranch.  Enough  of  literary  life.  The 
Montagu^  live  far  from  us  ;  both  Jane  and  the  noble  lady  seem  to 
have  seen  each  other,  and  found  that  an  interview  once  in  the  six 
weeks  was  qnough.  I  have  been  there  some  thrice  since  you  went. 
Procter  regards  me  as  a  proud  mystic  ;  I  him  (mostly)  as  a  worn- 
out  dud ;  so  we  walk  on  separate  roads.  The  other  Montagus  are 
mostly  mere  simulacra ,  and  not  edifying  ones.  Peace  be  to  all 
such.  Of  male  favourites  Mill  stands  at  the  top.  Jeffrey,  from 
his  levity,  a  good  deal  lower ;  yet  he  is  ever  kind  and  pleasant.  I 
sawT  Irving  yesternight.  He  is  still  good-natured  and  patient,  but 
enveloped  in  the  vain  sound  of  the  ‘  Tongues.’  I  am  glad  to 
think  he  will  not  go  utterly  mad  (not  madder  than  a  Don  Quixote 
was),  but  his  intellect  seems  quietly  settling  into  a  superstitious 
caput •  mortuum .  He  has  no  longer  any  opinion  to  deliver  worth 
listening  to  on  any  secular  matter.  The  Chancellor  can  eject  him. 
It  is  provided  by  the  original  deed  of  his  chapel  that  the  worship 
there  shall  be  that  of  the  Established  Church  of  Scotland.  His 
managers  I  know  have  already  consulted  Sugden.  Whether  and 
how  soon  they  may  drive  the  matter  to  extremities  is  not  to  be 
guessed.  I  pity  poor  Irving,  and  cannot  prophesy  of  him.  His 
‘  Morning  Watch,’  which  he  gave  me  yesternight,  is  simply  the 
howling  of  a  Bedlainite. 

To  Alexander  Carlyle. 

4  Ampton  Street :  February  19. 

•  •  •  c  •  •  •  • 

We  ara  corqing  home  as  early  as  possible  in  the  month  of  March. 
We  are  busy,  very  busy,  and  in  our  usual  health ;  Jane,  though 
•still  complaining,  rather  better  than  she  has  long  been.  I  do  not 
think  she  is  to  be  strong  again  till  she  has  got  into  her  home  and 
native  air,  which  of  course  will  quicken  our  motions  the  more. 

We  have  both  of  us  determined  to  take  better  care  of  our  health 
Were  we  once  home  again ;  I  feel  it  to  be  a  real  point  of  duty, 
wore  it  only  for  the  greater  quantity  and  better  quality  of  work 
which  good  health  enables  us  to  do.  We  are  also  minded  to  try 
if  we  cannot  be  a  little  more  domesticated  among  the  moors  of 
Puttock — to  take  a  greater  interest  in  the  people  there  (who  are 
all  immortal  creatures,  however  poor  and  defaced),  and  to  feel  as 
if  the  place  were  a  home  for  hs.  Such  as  it  is,  I  feel  it  a  great 
blessing  that  we  have  it  to  go  to.  Eor  the  whole  summer  and  on¬ 
wards  to  winter  I  already  see  plenty  of  work  before  me  :  how  we 
turn  ourselves  afterwards  need  not  yet  be  decided  on.  I  was  very 


214 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

glad  to  learn  that  you  had  promised  to  my  mother  to  keep  religion 
in  your  house  :  without  religion  constantly  present  in  the  heart,  I 
see  not  how  a  man  can  live  otherwise  than  unreasonably — than 
desperately.  I  think  that  you  do  really  in  heart  wish  to  be  a  good 
man  ‘  as  the  one  thing  needful ;  ’  also  that  you  will  more  and  more 
‘  lay  aside  every  weight,’  and  be  found  running  the  race  faithfully 
for  the  true  and  only  in’ize  of  manhood.  This  is  my  hope  and 
trust  of  you,  dear  brother  ;  God  turn  it  for  both  of  us  more  and 
more  into  fulfilment.  Believe  me  ever, 

Your  faithfully  affectionate  brother, 

T.  CaiujYle 

The  Carlyles  left  London  oil  the  25tli  of  March.  They 
returned  to  Scotland  by  Liverpool,  staying  a  few  days 
with  Mr.  Welsh  in  Maryland  Street,  and  then  going  on  as 
they  had  come  by  the  Annan  steamer.  Mrs.  Carlyle  suf¬ 
fered  frightfully  from  sea-sickness.  She  endured  the  voy¬ 
age  for  economy’s  sake  ;  but  she  was  in  bad  health  and  in 
worse  spirits.  The  Craigenputtock  exile,  dreary  and  dis¬ 
heartening,  was  again  to  be  taken  up  ;  the  prospect  of  re¬ 
lease  once  more  clouded  over.  Iler  life  was  the  dreariest 
of  slaveries  to  household  cares  and  toil.  She  was  without 
society,  except  on  an  occasional  visit  from  a  sister-in-law 
or  a  rare  week  or  so  with  her  mother  at  Templand.  Car¬ 
lyle,  intensely  occupied  with  his  thoughts  and  his  writing, 
was  unable  to  bear  the  presence  of  a  second  person  when 
busy  at  his  desk.  lie  sat  alone,  walked  alone,  generally 
rode  alone.  It  was  necessary  for  him  some  time  or  other 
in  the  day  to  discharge  in  talk  the  volume  of  thought 
which  oppressed  him.  But  it  was  in  vehement  soliloquy, 
to  which  his  wife  listened  with  admiration  perhaps,  but 
admiration  dulled  by  the  constant  repetition  of  the  dose, 
and  without  relief  or  comfort  from  it.  The  evenings  in 
London,  with  the  brilliant  little  circle  which  had  gath¬ 
ered  about  them,  served  only  to  intensify  the  gloom  of 
the  desolate  moor,  which  her  nerves,  already  shattered 
with  illness,  were  in  no  condition  to  encounter.  Carlyle 


Return  to  Scotland. 


215 


observed  these  symptoms  less  than  he  ought  to  have  done. 
His  own  health,  fiercely  as  at  times  he  complained  of  it, 
was  essentially  robust.  lie  wTas  doing  his  own  duty  with 
his  utmost  energy.  His  wife  considered  it  to  be  part  ot¬ 
hers  to  conceal  from  him  how  hard  her  own  share  of  the 
burden  had  become.  Her  high  principles  enabled  her  to 
go  through  with  it ;  but  the  dreams  of  intellectual  com¬ 
panionship  with  a' man  of  genius  in  which  she  had  en¬ 
tered  on  her  marriage  had  long  disappeared ;  and  she  set¬ 
tled  down  into  her  place  again  with  a  heavy  heart.  Her 
courage  never  gave  way  ;  but  she  had  a  bad  time  of  it. 
They  stayed  a  fortnight  at  Scotsbrig,  where  they  heard  the 
news  of  Goethe’s  death.  At  the  middle  of  April  they 
were  on  the  moor  once  more,  and  Carlyle  was  again  at  his 
work.  The  £  Characteristics  ’  and  the  article  on  Johnson 
had  been  received  with  the  warmest  admiration  from  the 
increasing  circle  of  young  intellectual  men  who  were  look¬ 
ing  up  to  him  as  their  teacher,  and  with  wonder  and  ap¬ 
plause  from  the  reading  London  world.  He  sat  down 
with  fresh  heart  to  new  efforts.  ‘  The  Heath  of  Goethe’ 
was  written  immediately  on  his  return  for  Lytton  Bulwer. 
Das  Mahrchen ,  fi  The  Tale,’  so  called  in  Germany,  as  if 
there  were  no  other  fit  to  be  compared  with  it,  was  trans¬ 
lated  for  ‘  Fraser,’  with  its  singular  explanatory  notes.1 
His  great  concluding  article  on  Goethe  himself,  on  Goe¬ 
the’s  position  and  meaning  in  European  history,  had  to  be 
written  next  for  the  ‘  Foreign  Quarterly;’  another  for  the 
‘  Edinburgh  ’  on  Ebenezer  Elliot,  the  Corn-law  Bhymer  ; 
and  lastly  the  essay  on  Diderot,  for  which  he  had  been 
collecting  materials  in  London.  He  had  added  to  his  cor¬ 
respondents  the  new  friend  John  Mill,  between  whom  and 
himself  there  had  sprung  up  an  ardent  attachment. 

1  Carlyle  told  me  that  he  had  asked  Goethe  whether  he  was  right  in  his  in¬ 
terpretation  of  this  story,  but  that  he  could  never  get  an  answer  from  him 
about  it. 


210 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


His  letters  to  Mill  are  not  preserved,  but  Mill’s  to  him 
remain.  Between  Jeffrey  and  Mrs.  Carlyle  also  the  com¬ 
munication  began  again,  Mrs.  Carlyle  apparently  telling 
her  cousin  more  of  her  inner  state  of  feeling  than  she 
pleased  to  show  to  anyone  else.  Jeffrey  had  been  an  al¬ 
most  daily  visitor  in  Ampton  Street :  he  saw  and  felt  for 
her  situation,  he  regarded  himself  as,  in  a  sense,  her  guar¬ 
dian,  and  he  insisted  that  she  should  keep  him  regularly 
informed  of  her  condition.  In  London  he  had  observed 
that  she  was  extremely  delicate ;  that  the  prospect  of  a 
return  to  Craigenputtock  wTas  intolerable  to  her.  Carlyle’s 
views  and  Carlyle’s  actions  provoked  him  more  and  more, 
lie  thought  him  as  visionary  as  the  Astronomer  in  ‘  Bas- 
selas,’  and  confessed  that  he  was  irritated  at  seeing  him 
throwing  away  his  talent  and  his  prospects.  . 

Carlyle,  after  his  reception  in  London  circles,  was  less 
than  ever  inclined  to  listen  to  Jeffrey’s  protests.  If  in  the 
midst  of  his  speculations  he  could  have  spared  a  moment 
to  study  his  wife’s  condition,  the  state  of  things  at  Craigen¬ 
puttock  might  have  been  less-  satisfactory  to  him.  He  was 
extremely  fond  of  her :  more  fond,  perhaps,  of  her  than 
of  any  other  living  person  except  his  mother.  But  it  was 
his  peculiarity,  that  if  matters  were  well  with  himself,  it 
never  occurred  to  him  that  they  could  be  going  ill  with 
anyone  else ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he  was  uncom¬ 
fortable,  he  required  everybody  to  be  uncomfortable  along 
with  him.  After  a  wreek  of  restlessness  he  was  at  his 
work  in  vigorous  spirits — especially  happy  because  he 
found  that  he  could  supply  Larry’s  place,  and  again  afford 
to  keep  a  horse. 

Carlyle  now  takes  up  his  own  story. 

To  'Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

Craigenputtock:  May  2,  1832. 

My  dear  Mother, — We  are  getting  along  quite  handsomely  here, 
though  in  the  midst  of  chaos  and  confusion  worse  confounded : 


Cmigenputtoclc  once  more. 


217 


Jemmy  Aitkin  and  liis  man  and  innumerable  oilpots  being  in  full 
operation.  They  are  painting  the  dining-room,  lobby,  and  stair¬ 
case  ;  and,  to  avoid  such  a  slaister  for  the  future,  doing  it  in  oil. 
We  live  in  the  drawing-room  meanwhile,  and  I,  for  my  part,  study 
to  ‘jook  and  let  the  jaw  go  by/ minding  my  own  business  as 
much  as  possible,  and  what  is  not  my  own  business  as  little  as 
possible. 

Betty  Smeal1  and  Mary,  of  whose  safe  arrival  we  were  some-, 
what  relieved  to  hear,  would  tell  you  more  minutely  than  my  lit¬ 
tle  note  how  all  stood  with  us  a  fortnight  ago.  Jane  had  sent  off 
to  Templand  for  a  maid,  but  began  to  regret  she  had  not  endeav¬ 
oured  to  bargain  with  the  other,  who,  awkward  as  she  was,  seemed 
faithful  and  punctual.  However,  on  the  Monday  a  new  figure 
made  her  appearance  ;  one  ‘  Nancy  ’  from  Thornhill,  a  most  assid¬ 
uous,  blithe,  fond  little  stump  of  a  body,  who  will  do  excellently 
well.  The  cow,  too,  is  mending.  Jane  is  far  heartier  now  that 
she  has  got  to  work  :  to  bake ; 2  and,  mark  this,  to  preserve  eggs  in 
lime-water ;  so  that,  as  I  said,  the  household  stands  on  a  quite 
tolerable  footing. 

For  a  week  I  felt  exceedingly  out  of  my  element ;  inclined  to 
be  wretched  and  sulky  :  no  work  would  prosper  with  me  :  I  had 
to  burn  as  fast  as  I  wrote.  However,  by  degrees  I  got  hefted  again, 
and  took  obediently  to  the  gang  and  the  gear.  I  have  got  one 
piece  of  work  done  and  sent  off  to  London  ;  the  other  I  have  now 
fairly  on  the  anvil,  hot  before  me,  and  will  soon  hammer  it  out. 
One  that  is  still  in  the  middle  ought  not,  as  you  know,  to  crcnv 
day.  However,  I  think  I  can  calculate  on  being  pretty  well 
through  before  this  week  end ;  so  that  Jane  may  tell  Alick  that  I 
shall  be  ready  for  a  horse  any  time  after  Wednesday  next  he  likes. 
I  have  seen  or  heard  nothing,  since  his  letter,  of  the  Dumfries 
beast,  and  will  wait  now  till  I  be  there  at  any  rate,  if  we  are  not 
provided  otherwise  in  the  mean  time. 

This  I  believe,  dear  mother,  is  the  main  purpose  of  my  letter — 
that  I  am  to  see  you  again  so  soon.  We  will  then  go  through 
everything  by.  the  more  convenient  method. 

I  have  rooted  out  a  thousand  docks  with  my  dock  spade,  which 
I  find  to  be  an  invaluable  tool. 

Let  me  pray  that  I  may  find  you  as  well  as  Jane  described, 

1  A  Scotsbrig  maid,  who  had  been  in  charge  of  Craigenputtock  in  the  winter. 

2  A  mistake  on  Carlyle’s  part.  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  not  strength  for  household 
work.  She  did  it ;  but  it  permanently  broke  down  her  health. 


2J.  8 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

mending  the  Eackburn  road  ?  I  add  no  more  bnt  the  message  of 
my  wife’s  true  love  to  one  and  all  of  you.  My  own  heart’s  wishes 
are  with  you  always. 

I  remain,  my  dear  Mother, 

Ever  your  affectionate, 

T.  Caelyle. 

Jane  wishes  Jemmy  to  be  on  the  outlook  for  a  pig  for  her  ;  she 
would  not  like  to  go  beyond  ten  shillings,  only  wishes  a  good  one 
could  be  had  so,  and  come  up  with  Alick’s  cart.  I  know  not 
whether  the  scheme  is  feasible. — T.  C. 

To  Jolm  Carlyle,  Naples. 

May  22. 

We  are  contented  with  the  appearance  of  your  domestic  posi¬ 
tion,  and  would  fain  see  further  into  it.  Your  noble  patient 
seems  to  suffer  more  than  we  anticipated.  A  certain  real  pity  for 
her  forlorn  fortune,  so  gorgeous  outwardly,  within  so  desolate, 
comes  over  me ;  one  could  fancy  it  no  despicable  task  to  struggle 
towards  rectifying  a  life  wherein  are  such  capabilities  of  good. 
But,  alas !  how  little  can  be  done  !  Therein,  as  in  so  many  other 
cases,  must  the  patient  minister  to  herself.  He  whom  experience 
lias  not  taught  innumerable  hard  lessons,  will  be  wretched  at  the 
bottom  of  Nature’s  cornucopia  ;  and  some  are  so  dull  at  taking 
up  !  On  the  whole,  the  higher  classes  of  modern  Europe,  espe¬ 
cially  of  actual  England,  are  true  objects  of  compassion.  Be  thou 
compassionate,  patiently  faithful,  leave  no  means  untried;  work 
for  thy  wages,  and  it  will  be  well  with  thee.  Those  Herzensergies- 
sungen  eines  Einsamen ,  which  the  late  letters  abound  in,  are  not 
singular  to  me.  The  spirit  that  dwells  in  them  is  such  as  I  caff 
heartily  approve  of.  It  is  an  earnest  mind  seeking  some  place  ai 
refet  for  itself,  struggling  to  get  its  foot  off  the  quicksand  and 
fixed  on  the  rock.  The  only  thing  I  regret  or  fear  is  that  there 
should  be  so  much  occupation  of  the  mind  upon  itself.  Turn 
outward.  Attempt  not  the  impossibility  to  ‘  know  thyself,’  but 
solely  ‘  to  know  what  thou  canst  work  at.’  This  last  is  a  possible 
knowledge  for  every  creature,  and  the  only  profitable  one ;  neither 
is  there  any  way  of  attaining  it  except  trial,  the  attempt  to  work. 
Attempt  honestly  ;  the  result,  even  if  unsuccessful,  will  be  infi¬ 
nitely  instructive.  I  can  see,  too,  you  have  a  great  want  in  your 
present  otherwise  so  prosperous  condition :  you  have  not  anything 
like  enough  to  do.  I  dare  say  many  a  poor  riding  apothecary, 
with  five  times  your  labour  and  the  fifth  part  of  your  income,  is 


Craigenjputtoch  once  more. 


219 


happier.  Nevertheless,  stand  to  it  tightly ;  every  time  brings  its 
duty.  Think  of  this,  as  you  are  wont,  but  think  of  it  with  a  practi¬ 
cal  intent.  All  speculation  is  beginningless  and  endless.  Do  not 
let  yourself  into  Griibeln,  even  in  your  present  state  of  partial 
inaction.  I  well,  infinitely  too  well,  know  what  Griibeln  is  :  a 
wretched  sink  of  darkness,  pain,  a  paralytic  fascination.  Cover  it 
up  ;  that  is  to  say,  neglect  it  for  some  outward  piece  of  action  ;  go 
resolutely  forward,  you  will  not  heed  the  precipices  that  gape  on 
the  right  hand  of  you  and  on  the  left.  Finally,  dear  brother,  ‘  be 
alive  !  ’  as  my  Shrewsbury  coachman  told  a  Methodist  parson  ;  be 
alive !  all  is  included  in  that.  And  so,  God  keep  you  and  me  ! 
and  make  us  all  happy  and  honourable  to  one  another,  and  ‘  not 
ashamed  to  live  ’  (as  a  voice  we  have  often  heard  was  wont  to 
pray),  ‘nor  afraid  to  die.’  Amen. 

I  was  at  Scotsbrig  last  week,  and  found  them  all  struggling 
along,  much  as  of  old.  Our  dear  mother  holds  out  well ;  is  in 
fair  health,  not  more  dispirited  than  almost  any  one  would  be 
under  her  bereavement,  and  peaceful,  with  a  high  trust  in  the 
great  Guide  of  qjl.  We  expect  her  here  in  about  a  week,  with 
Alick,  who  is  bringing  up  the  cart  with  some  sort  of  a  horse  lie 
was  to  buy  for  me. »  We  settled  everything  at  Scotsbrig;  the  de¬ 
parted  had  left  it  all  ready  for  settlement.  Your  name  or  mine 
(as  I  had  myself  requested)1  is  not  mentioned  in  the  will :  it  was 
all  between  my  mother  and  the  other  five.  Each  had  to  claim 
some  perhaps  120/.—  each  of  the  five.  Our  mother  has  the  houses 
with  some  28/.  yearly  during  life. 

Of  ourselves  here  there  is  not  much  new  to  be  said.  Jane 
seemed  to  grow  very  greatly  better  when  she  set  foot  on  her  native 
heath ;  is  now  not  so  well  again,  but  better  than  in  London.  I 
have  written  two  things — a  short  Funeral  Oration  on  Goethe :  it 
is  for  Bulwer’s  magazine  of  June  (the  ‘New  Monthly’),  and  pleases 
the  lady  much  better  than  me ;  then  a  paper  on  certain  Corn-law 
Bhynies  for  Napier,  of  some  twenty-five  pages.  I  am  now  begin¬ 
ning  a  far  more  extensive  essay  on  Goethe ,  for  the  ‘  Foreign  Quar¬ 
terly  Beview.’  I  am  apt  to  be  rather  stupid,  but  do  the  best  I 
can.  Venerable,  dear  Goethe  !  but  we  will  not  speak  a  word  here. 
Our  pastoral  establishment  is  much  like  what  it  was  ;  duller  a  little 

1  Carlyle  explains  in  his  journal.  He  had  represented  to  his  father  that  he 
and  his  brother  John  had  received  their  share  of  his  fortune  in  their  educa¬ 
tion,  and  that  the  rest  ought  to  be  divided  among  those  who,  by  working  on 
the  farm,  had  assisted  in  earning  it. 


220 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


since  Alick  went,  but  also  quieter.  Our  new  neighbours  have 
nothing  to  do  with  us  except  little  kind  offices  of  business.  Artic¬ 
ulate  speech  I  hear  little,  my  sole  comfort  and:  remedy  is  work. 
Work !  rather  an  unnatural  state,  but  not  to  be  altered  for  the 
present.  With  many  blessings,  too  :  a  kind,  true-hearted  wife, 
with  whom  a  true  man  may  share  any  fortune,  fresh  air,  food,  and 
raiment  fit  for  one.  The  place  is  even  a  beautiful  place  in  its 
kind,  and  may  serve  for  a  workshop  as  well  as  another.  Let  us 
work  then,  and  be  thankful. 

The  Whig  Ministry  is  all  out  and  gone  to  the  devil,  Reform  Bin 
and  all.  Newspapers  will  tell  you  enough.  For  us  here  it  is  little 
more  than  a  matter  of  amusement :  ‘  Whoiver’s  King  I’se  be  soob- 
ject.’  The  country  is  all  in  a  shriek,  but  wTill  soon  compose  itself 
when  it  finds  that  things  are — just  where  they  were.  Incapable 
dilettantes  and  capable  knaves — which  is  worse  ?  Excuse  my  dul- 
ness,  dear  J ohn.  Love  me  always,  and  may  God  bless  you. 

T.  Carlyle. 

P.S.  by  Mrs.  Carlyle:— 

My  husband  says :  ‘  I  have  written  the  dullest  letter ;  do  take 
the  pen  and  underline  it  with  something  lively  !  ’  But  alas  !  dear 
brother,  I  have  dined — on  a  peppery  pie  !  and  judge  whether  what 
he  requires  be  possible  :  console-toi.  ,  I  will  write  you  a  long  letter 
some  day,  and  all  out  of  my  own  head,  as  the  children  say.  In 
the  meantime,  believe  that  my  affections  and  heartiest  good  wishes 
are  with  you  now  and  always. 

Your  sister, 

JanU  W.  C. 

Pleasant  letters  came  from  London.  John  Mill,  young, 
ingenuous,  and  susceptible,  had  been  profoundly  impressed 
by  Carlyle.  lie  had  an  instinct  for  recognising  truth  in 
any  form  in  which  it  might  be  presented  to  him.  Charles 
Puller  had  foretold  that  although  Mill’s  and  Carlyle’s 
methods  of  thought  wTere  as  wide  asunder  as  the  poles, 
they  would  understand  and  appreciate  each  other.  They 
sympathised  in  a  common  indignation  at  the  existing  con¬ 
dition  of  society,  in  a  common  contempt  for  the  insincere 
professions  with  which  men  were  veiling  from  themselves 
and  from  one  another  their  emptiness  of  spiritual  belief ; 


Advice  to  John  Carlyle. 


221 

and  neither  Mill  nor  Carlyle  as  yet  realised  how  far  apart 
their  respective  principles  would  eventually  draw  them. 
The  review  of  Boswell’s  c  Life  of  Johnson’  had  delighted 
Mill.  He  had  read  it  so  often  that  he  could  almost  re¬ 
peat  it  -from  end  to  end.  He  recognised  the  immense 
superiority  of  intellectual  honesty  to  intellectual  power. 
He  recognised  the  shallowness  and  feebleness  of  modern 
thought  in  the  midst  of  its  cant  of  progress.  He  professed 
himself  a  humble  disciple  of  Carlyle,  eager  to  be  convinced 
(which  as  yet  he  admitted  that  he  was  not)  of  the  great¬ 
ness  of  Goethe ;  eager  to  admit  with  innocent  modesty 
Carlyle's  own  superiority  to  himself. 

The  letters  from  Mill  were  agreeable  interludes  in  the 
life  at  Craigenputtock,  pictures  of  which  Carlyle  continued 
regularly  to  send  to  his  brother,  while  he  recorded  in  his 
the  workings  of  his  own  mind. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Naples. 

Craigenputtock:  July  31,  1832. 

My  dear  Brother, — Goodwife  Macadam  brought  us  your  letter 
of  the  4th  from  church  with  her  on  Sunday  evening.  It  is  the 
way  the  three  last  have  happened  to  come,  so  we  shall  esteem  it  a 
happy  omen  when  our  neighbour  thinks  of  getting  a  sermon.  God 
be  thanked,  it  is  all  right.  You  are  well,  and  have  now  heard  that 
we  are  well.  Another  letter,  sent  off  through  the  Advocate  by  the 
Foreign  Office,  will  be  already  in  your  hands.  "We  shall  hence¬ 
forth  eschew  William  Fraser  as  we  would  the  genius  of  impotence 
itself,  and  trust  mainly  to  the  Post,  which,  though  it  has  loitered, 
has  never  yet  absolutely  deceived  us.  I  lament  for  poor  Fraser — 
a  worthy,  friendly  creature,  but  whose  utter  unpunctuality  in  a 
world  built  on  time  will  frustrate  every  endeavour  he  may  engage 
in,  except  the  last — that  of  quitting  life — which  will  probably  be 
transacted  in  right  season.  I  am  angry,  too,  as  well  as  sorry ;  the 
idle  losing  of  letters  is  a  stretch  of  carelessness  to  which  even  the 
peasants  of  Glenessland  are  superior.  Entrust  any  of  them  with  a 
letter,  he  knows  it  must  be  attended  to.  Fraser  to  all  appearance 
has  also  wasted  my  last  letter  to  Goethe  ;  at  least  no  message  yet 
reaches  me  from  Weimar,  and  I  wrote  to  Eckermann  last  week  on 


222 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

that  hypothesis.  Fie,  fie,  the  foolish  Fraser !  And  now,  Doctor, 
taking  to  ourselves  this  practical  lesson  to  be  for  onr  share  in  all 
things  donbly  and  trebly  punctual,  we  will  leave  the  unfortunate 
man.  All  is  right  at  last. 

Both  of  us  were  heartily  gratified  with  your  letter.  I  have  the  . 
cheering  sight  before  me  of  a  prophecy,  often  pronounced  and  as¬ 
serted,  realising  itself.  Jack  is  to  be  a  man  after  all.  Your  out¬ 
ward  relations  seem  all  prosperous  and  well  managed.  Your  char¬ 
acter  is  unfolding  itself  into  true  self-subsistence.  In  the  work 
appointed  you  to  do  you  not  only  seem  to  work  but  actually  work. 
For  the  rest,  let  us  be  j>atient  under  this  delay  and  separation. 
Both  were  x>erliaps  necessary ;  in  any  case,  if  we  improve  them, 
will  turn  to  good  fruits.  I  quarrel  not  with  your  solitude,  nor 
with  anything  you  do,  so  it  bring  yourself  contentment  and  the 
feeling  of  profit.  This  is  the  best  and  only  role  you  can  have. 
Nevertheless,  I  have  always  found  that  companionship  with  any 
man  that  will  speak  out  truly  his  experiences  and  persuasions 
(?o  he  have  such)  was  a  most  precious  ingredient  in  the  history  of 
one’s  life ;  a  thing  one  turns  back  to,  and  finds  evermore  new 
meaning  in ;  for  indeed  this  is  real,  and  therefore  inexhaustible. 
God  made  that  man  you  speak  with ;  all  else  is  more  or  less  theo¬ 
retical  and  incomplete.  Indeed,  in  every  sense  one  is  but  an 
unhealthy  fraction  while  alone  ;  only  in  society  with  his  equals  a 
whole.  For  which  reason  it  gratifies  me  that  you  make  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  Gell  and  old  Squares,  the  doctor.  I  could  like  well  to 
know  both  of  them.  Sir  W.  [yin  Bornirter  den  man  muss  gelten 
/assail)  will  make  an  excellent  cicerone ;  can  tell  you  all  about 
Troy,  too,  and  who  knows  what  itineraries.  Quadri  will  satirically 
show  you  Italian  quackery,  and  how  an  ardent,  hot  temperament' 
demeans  itself  therein.  I  must  also  esteem  it  no  small  felicity  you 
naturally  have :  that  of  associating  with  a  thoroughly  courteous 
society-cultivated  woman.  No  higher  piece  of  art  is  there  in  the 
world.  Schone  sie  !  Verekre  sie  !  Your  whole  law  lies  there.  The 
weak,  lovely  one  will  be  loved,  honoured  and  protected.  Is  not 
in  truth  a  noble  woman  (noblewoman  or  not)  Gottes  lieblichster 
GedanJce,  and  worth  reverencing?  Be  diligent  with  your  journal. 
Note  everything,  let  it  seem  noteworthy  or  not.  ^Elave  no  eye 
towards  publication,  but  only  towards  self  enlightenment  and 
pleasant  recollection.  Publication,  if  it  seems  needful,  will  fo]- 
low  of  its  own  accord.  Goethe’s  Italian  travels  are  a  fine  model. 
Alles  rein  angeschaut ,  wie  es  ist,  und  seyn  muss.  I  often  figure  you 


Annandale  JVews. 


223 


in  the  Toledo  street  with  lemonade-booths  and  macaroni  cook¬ 
eries,  and  loud  singing,  loud  speaking  multitudes  on  the  loveliest 
spot  of  earth’s  surface.  I  here  on  the  Glaisters  hillside,  in  the 
warm  dusk,  the  wilderness  all  vapoury  and  silent  except  a  curlew 
or  two,  the  great  heaven  above  me,  around  me  only  the  spirits  of 
the  distant,  of  the  dead — all  has  a  preternatural  character  un¬ 
speakably  earnest,  sad,  but  nowise  wretched.  You  may  tell  me, 
if  you  like,  what  German  books  your  lady  reads ;  and  on  the 
whole  be  more  and  more  minute  in  picturing  out  to  me  the  current 
of  your  natural  day.  I  want  to  know  what  clothes  you  wear,  what 
sort  of  victual  you  subsist  on. 

To  turn  now  the  Scottish  side  of  the  leaf.  I  have  finished 
‘  Goethe’s  Works,’  and  corrected  the  proof  of  it  since  I  wrote — a 
long,  desultory,  rhapsodic  concern  of  forty-four  pages  in  the 
‘  F.  Q.  Review.’  These  are  no  days  for  speaking  of  Goethe.  I 
next  went  over  to  Catlinns,1  and  Scotsbrig,  leaving  Jane  at  Temp- 
land  (who  rued  much  that  she  had  volunteered  to  stay  behind 
me).  The  Catlinns  agriculture  was  all  green  and  prospering. 
The  farmer,  with  wife  and  child,  had  gone  over  to  Brand’s  of 
Craighorn,  whither  I  followed  them ;  and,  strange  enough,  was 
shortly  after  joined  by  Jamie  and  my  mother,  all  engaged  that 
evening  to  have  tea  there !  Everything  was  as  one  could  have 
hoped:  crops  all  excellent,  good  health,  good  agreement,  good 
weather.  I  drove  our  mother  to  Annan  next  forenoon  in  the  clatch, 
as  we  call  the  old  gig,  which  the  new  grey  mare  briskly  draws 
along:  went  and  bathed  there  at  the  ‘back  of  the  hill,’ in  the  very 
spot  where  I  was  near  drowned  six  and  twenty  years  ago,  whither 
I  will  not  return :  found  Ben  Nelson  (it  was  market  day) ;  dined 
with  him  and  talked  immeasurably  all  afternoon,  though  I  had 
much  rather  have  listened  if  he  had  liked. 

I  was  at  Annan  another  bathing  day,  but  missed  Ben.  However, 
we  chanced  to  meet  on  Dodbeck  Heights  next  Wednesday  morn¬ 
ing  as  I  was  returning  home  :  appointed  a  rendezvous  at  our  inn 
and  then  over  a  thimbleful  of  brandy  and  water  talked  again  for 
the  space  of  two  stricken  hours.  Waugh  I  now  asked  for  and 
heard  the  strangest  history.  Lying  among  the  pots,  forgotten  of 
men,  he  sees  his  Aunt  Margaret  die  (poor  old  Peg!)  and  himself 
thereby  put  in  possession  of  50/.  as  inheritance.  Whereupon, 
shaving  his  beard  and  putting  on  change  of  raiment,  he  walks 
down  to  Benson’s,  and  there  orders  fodder  and  stall  of  the  best ; 

1  Alexander  Carlyle’s  new  farm. 


224 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

reigns  among  the  bagmen  to  heart’s  content  ;  shifts  after  a  season 
to  the  King’s  Arms,  Dumfries,  and  there  or  in  some  similar  estab¬ 
lishment  is  perhaps  even  now  burning  his  fifty  pound  candle  to 
the  socket,  and  going  out  in  stench !  Saw  ever  mortal  the  like  ? 
The  man,  Doctor,  is  once  for  all  deprived  of  understanding,  the 
greatest  misfortune,  properly  the  only  one,  that  can  befall  a  man. 
He  hath  said  to  the  father  of  No  Work  and  Darkness,  ‘Behold  I 
am  thine.’  Let  me  mention  here  more  specially,  before  quitting 
Annandale,  that  at  Scotsbrig  all  was  busy  and  right ;  hay  harvest 
was  at  its  height  the  day  I  came  off,  and  prospering  well.  Our 
mother  seemed  in  better  than  usual  health,  was  delighted  with  her 
two  bathes,  and  should  have  (had  another)  but  the  clatch  failed 
and  needed  repairs.  She  said  after,  ‘  I  kenna  how  many  kind 
things  I  wanted  to  bid  (thee  say  for)  me  to  40!111  >  and  thou  was 
ay  gane  first.’  I  said  you  understood  them  all,  and  I  constantly 
(wrote  with)  pains  about  Scotsbrig  and  her.  I  am  to  write  thither 
this  night  and  send  your  letter.  Alick  also  I  write  to  :  our  boy  is 
going  to  exchange  horses  with  him  for  a  week  (when)  we  get  the 
rest  of  our  coals  carted.  Our  newspapers  go  between  these  house¬ 
holds  and  sometimes  from  one  to  the  other ;  there  is  all  commu¬ 
nity  we  can  kept  up  :  frequent  messages,  constant  good  wishes. 

Since  I  returned  I  have  been  employed  translating  a  little  piece 
named  ‘Novelle,’  from  the  fifteenth  volume  of  Goethe,  and  revis¬ 
ing  an  old  translation  of  ‘  the  Mahrchen,’  with  intent  to  add  some 
commentary ;  and  offer  both  papers  to  James  Fraser.  I  have  an 
essay  to  write  on  Diderot  (for  Cochrane),  and  all  his  twenty-one  oc¬ 
tavos  lying  here  to  read  first :  shall  do  it,  any  way,  invito,  Minervd, 
and  may  as  well  begin  even  now.  I  have  upwards  of  a  hundred 
pages  to  put  out  of  me  before  winter.  Stand  to  it  ?  Nulla  dies 
sine  lined .  As  to  Dreck,  he  lies  here  quite  calm  bound  up  in 
twine.  My  partial  purpose  is  to  spend  another  50/.  on  him,  and 
have  him  printed  by-and-by  myself.  I  in  some  measure  see 
through  the  matter,  not  yet  wholly.  One  thing  I  imagine  to  be 
clear  enough,  that  bookselling ,  slain  by  puffery,  is  dead,  and  will  not 
come  alive  again,  though  worms  may  for  some  time  live  in  the  car¬ 
case.  What  method  writers  who  have  something  to  write  shall 
next  take  is  now  the  question.  In  a  generation  or  two  the  answer 
(summed  up  from  the  procedure  of  wise,  inventive  men)  will  be 
forthcoming.  To  us  any  way  martyrdom  is  the  thing  appointed  ; 
in  this  and  all  other  generations  only  the  degree  of  it,  the  outward 
figure  of  it,  vary.  Thank  God  we  have  still  food  and  vesture,  and 


Annandale  JVews. 


225 


can  still  get  a  thing  spoken  out  and  printed  ;  more  we  need  not 
covet,  more  is  not  necessary.  I  have  a  thing  to  send  Napier  on 
all  this,  but  it  is  in  petto  yet.  Meanwhile  we  get  along  tolerably 
enough ;  all,  as  you  fancied,  is  tight,  tidy,  and  peaceable  here — a 
flourishing  garden,  with  blackbirds  devouring  the  fruit,  even  apples 
a  basket  or  two  ;  roses  innumerable  ;  a  park  walled  in  (this  was  poor 
Alick’s  last  act  here)  so  that  the  ‘  rowantree  gate  ’  and  all  gates  but 
the  outer  one  are  removed,  and  cow  and  horses  graze  at  ease  ;  a  mon¬ 
strous  peat-stack  against  grim  winter  ;  money  in  one’s  piu*Se,  faith 
in  one’s  heart.  "What  is  there  wanting  ?  So  we  live  here,  a  wunder- 
liches,  abgesondertes  TVesen.  Jane  drives  down  to  Dumfries  to-mor¬ 
row  with  the  boy,  and  takes  this  letter.  She  is  far  enough  from 
perfect  health  still,  yet  certainly  improving.  She  greets  you  affec¬ 
tionately  ;  was  much  pleased  with  your  letter,  especially  that  part 
where  you  speak  so  sensibly  about  a  good  wife  and  the  blessedness 
she  brings.  I  have  some  thought  that  we  shall  be  in  Edinburgh 
this  winter,  printing  of  Dreck  and  what  not.  I  have  Mill,  and  Mrs. 
Austin  Jane  has,  as  occasional  correspondents  in  London.  Mill 
and  Glen  are  acquainted,  though  it  is  mostly  on  Mill’s  side ; 
Glen  is  so  fencible  a  character,  so  near  madness  moreover.  Mill’s 
letters  are  too  speculative ;  but  I  reckon  him  an  excellent  person, 
and  his  love  to  me  is  great.  He  tells  me  Glen  got  your  Naples 
letter,  was  much  contented  therewith,  and  well.  His  other  news 
are  the  decease,  or  at  least  paralysis,  of  St.  Simonianism ;  and 
London  politics,  for  which  I  care  less  every  day.  Buller  is  trying 
for  Liskeard  borough  with  hopes.  The  election  will  not  be  for 
several  months ;  no  dissolution  all  winter.  George  Irving  was  at 
Annan  at  his  father’s  funeral  for  two  days.  Edward,  it  seems,  'is 
summoned  to  answer  for  himself  before  the  Annan  Presbytery, 
and  will  come,  and  be  deposed.  The  time  is  near ;  whether  I 
shall  see  him  uncertain.  He  is  preaching  in  the  fields  about  Lon¬ 
don  ;  at  Hampstead  Heath,  his  precentor  in  a  tree  (last  account  I 
saw).  There  was  also  a  paragraph  about  building  him  a  new 
church.  His  old  congregation  have  offered  somebody  1,000/.  a 
year.  Whether  he  takes  it,  not  said.  The  Dows  are  both  out,  the 
last  of  them  resigned.  It  is  wholly  a  beastly  piece  of  ignorance 
and  stupidity,  too  stupid  even  for  the  gross  heads  of  England. 
That- the  high,  the  holy,  can  find  no  other  lodging  than  that  swin¬ 
ish  one  is  even  the  misery.  God  mend  it,  and  us.  Of  Badams 
no  news  since  we  left  him  in  Bartlett’s  Buildings ;  gone  from  En¬ 
field,  with  no  good  outlook  moral  or  domestic.  Poor  Bada&s, 

Vol.  II.— 15 


j 


226 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  • 

wie  gem  mod  if  ich  Dich  retten  !  Graham  is  still  in  Glasgow,  no 
tidings  could  I  get  of  him  farther.  Burnswark  unsold.  So  goes 
the  world  here,  dear  brother.  The  weather  is  hot,  the  year  is 
fertile  beyond  all  example.  The  simple  hope  from  the  Reform 
Bill.  Electioneering  flourishes,  in  which  I  take  no  interest. 
Cholera  is  at  Carlisle,  and  somewhat  worse  than  ever  in  London. 
None  of  us  are  in  the  least  alarmed  at  it.  Be  not  you  either.  I 
paid  Alick  45 1.  8 s.  of  your  money.  The  25 1.  8s.  was  a  tailor’s  ac¬ 
count  ;  'Afld  now  you  owe  him  nothing.  I  sent  Jeffrey  word  that 
you  had  remitted  the  43/.  10s.  (specifying  the  items)  to  pay  him, 
and  that  /,  not  you,  was  now  (till  I  could  get  the  Dumfries  banker 
near)  his  debtor.  He  answers,  gratified  by  your  punctuality,  and 
I  will  now  clear  him  off  the  first  time  I  am  at  Dumfries.  He  says 
you  have  justified  what  I  thought  unjustifiable.  Gott  sey  Dank  ! 
I  am  in  no  need  of  money,  otherwise  I  would  freely  take  your 
help,  and  will  continue  as  ready  if  you  prove  worthy.  I  can  now 
‘  pay  the  Advocate  my  own  debt  (had  I  once  got  my  accounts  in), 
and  have  a  50/.  over.  Another  100/.,  to  be  earned  as  fast  as  may 
be,  will  clear  Edinburgh  and  even  print  Dreck.  As  Dreck  can  be 
unprinted  till  the  means  be  lent  me,  so  one  hand  will  wash  the 
other,  and  we  shall  do  very  well.  Jeffrey  is  perhaps  on  his  way 
to  Edinburgh  to-day.  He  is  a  candidate  for  the  Membership 
there,  and  has  a  Radical  opponent  and  a  Tory.  All  men  are  dis¬ 
appointed  in  him  a  little,  but  remember  his  past  services. 

Jane  says  she  will  write  you  a  complete  letter  next  time.  This 
is  the  thing  she  says.  Let  us  see  whether  she  will  perform.  I 
will  not  fail  to  remind  her,  if  that  will  do.  And  now,  dear 
brother,  adieu. 

Valeas  mei  memo r, 

T.  Cablyljg. 

Extracts  from  Journal. 

May  18. — About  beginning  an  essay  on  Goethe’s  life.  All  still 
dark,  or  rather  all  void ;  yet  thin  films,  of  bulk  enough  had  they 
become  substances,  hover  here  and  there.  Have  been  well  nigh 
idle  again  for  a  fortnight.  Nothing  spurs  me  but  an  evil  con¬ 
science. 

I  have  often  remarked  that  the  present  generation  has  lost  the 
faculty  of  giving  names .  The  modern  streets  of  towns  (London 
for  a  chief  example)  and  innumerable  other  things  are  proofs  of 
this.  They  are  reduced  to  name  streets  by  the  owner  of  the  land, 


Extracts  from  Journal. 


227 


by  tlio  builder,  or  in  some  other  mechanical  way,  almost  as  if  by 
formula.  Thus  in  Dumfries  they  have  made  their  old  Lochmaben 
Gate  into  English  Street,  they  have  their  Irish  Street,  and  so  forth. 
In  Manchester  they  have  taken  the  ready-made  London  names, 
have  their  Piccadilly  and  the  like.  In  Liverpool  they  have  named 
streets  by  herbs  (Vine  Street,  &c.,  &c.),  by  poets  (Pope  Street), 
and  by  other  desperate  methods.  What  talent  is  specially  requi¬ 
site  for  giving  a  name  ?  A  certain  geniality  of  insight,  thereby 
some  real  property  of  the  thing  reveals  itself.  A  very  little  will 
do,  but  some  little  is  requisite ;  then,  so  useful  are  names,  even 
*  an  indifferent  one  sticks.  We  cannot  now  give  so  much  as  a  nick¬ 
name.  Giving  a  name,  indeed,  is  a  poetic  art ;  all  poetry,  if  we 
go  to  that  with  it,  is  but  a  giving  of  names. 

What  a  sad  want  I  am  in  of  libraries,  of  books  to  gather  facts 
from  !  Why  is  there  not  a  Majesty’s  library  in  every  county  town? 
There  is  a  Majesty’s  jail  and  gallows  in  every  one. 

■4 

Wednesday,  May  23. — Came  news  that  Wellington  has  not  been 
able  to  get  on,  so  violent  was  the  spirit  of  the  country  and  Parlia¬ 
ment,  so  had  given  up  the  concern,  and  ‘  our  friends  ’  were  once 
more  all  in  their  places,  with  liberty  to  create  peers  or  do  what 
they  liked.  A  la  bonne  heure  !  Democracy  gets  along  with  accel¬ 
erated  pace — whither?  Old  borough-mongers  seemingly  quite 
desperate ;  meetings,  resolutions,  black  flags  and  white  flags 
(some  even  mount  a  petticoat  in  reference  to  the  Queen),  threat- 
gnings,  solemn  covenants  (to  oust  Toryism),  run  their  course  .over 
all  the  Isles.  I  purely  an  on-looker,  in  any  other  capacity  there 
being  no  need  of  me. 

Thus,  then,  after  eighteen  months  of  discussion  and  concussion 
(enough  to  shake  a  far  firmer  than  our  worm-eaten  constitution  to 
pieces)  is  this  grand  question  to  be  decided  in  the  affirmative? 
Shall  we  give  ourselves  a  chance  to  begin  to  try  whether  we  can 
help  the  maladies  of  England,  or  shall  wTe  not  give  ourselves  a 
chance  ? 

Earl  Grey  and  his  squadron  have  moved  along  like  honest,  solid- 
lying — luggage.  Tumbled  back  they  had  always  fallen  on  a  reso¬ 
lute  unanimous  people,  and  been  borne  forward  again.  Could 
they  have  passed  a  Catholic  Bill,  any  ‘  Bill  ’  requiring  the  smallest 
address  or  management  ?  Wellington  is  at  the  stake  (in  effigy)  in 
all  market  towns  ;  undeservedly,  as  I  imagine.  The  man  seems  a 


228 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


Tory  soldier ;  otherwise  a  person  of  great  intrepidity,  strategic- 
diplomatic  facnlty,  soldierly  (Dalgettvish)  principle,  and  even  di¬ 
rectness  and  plainness  of  speech.  Fond  of  employment  doubtless, 
fond  of  power.  Perhaps  one  of  the  most  honest  men  in  the  House 
of  Lords.  Earl  Grey  can  speak ;  act  he  apparently  cannot.  He 
should  resign  directly  after  passing  his  Bill,  if  he  would  avoid  be¬ 
coming  the  most  unpopular  man  in  England,  which  poor  W.  now 
is.  Basta ! 

H  t 

Wednesday ,  June  6. — Was  at  Templand  yesterday;  over  the 
‘Bogra  Craig’  in  the  morning,  and  returned  at  night  by  the  Lag 
road.  Fine  scent  of  hawthorns  and  green  summer  herbs ;  old- 
fashioned  thatched  cottages,  clean,  whitened,  warm-looking  in 
their  hdusliche  Eingezogenheit.  Woman  with  her  children  peeling 
potatoes  by  the  water  side,  down  in  the  chasm  at  Scarbridge.  At 
night,  hawthorn  blossoms  again,  queen  of  the  meadows,  glowworms 
in  Glenessland,  a  waning  moon,  and  gusty  north-easter.  My  own 
thoughts  sad  enough,  yet  not  of  that  hateful  emptiness.  They  are 
thoughts,  not  mere  sensations.  Mother  and  Jane  waiting  my  (late) 
return. 

Sir  James  Mackintosh  is  dead.  A  Whig  of  the  highest  order, 
the  result  of  whose  life  is  well-nigh  exhausted  with  himself. 
Henceforth  no  man  of  such  faculty  is  doomed  to  that  unfortu¬ 
nate  part  of  a  ‘supposer,’  well  paid  for  plainly  supposing ,  and  so 
seeming  plausibly  to  act,  but  may  become  a  believer,  and  actually 
set  about  doing.  I  saw  Mackintosh  only  once,  and  never  spoke  to 
him,  only  heard  him  speaking. 

Very  kind  letter  from  Mill,  whose  zealous  and  quite  credible 
approbation  and  appropriation  of  Johnson  gratifies  me,  I  doubt, 
far  more  than  it  should.  Unspeakable  is  the  importance  of  man 
to  man.  A  tailor  at  Thornhill,  who  had  vehemently  laid  to  heart 
the  Characteristics,  was  also  a  glad  phenomenon  to  me.  Let  a 
million  voices  cry  out,  ‘  How  clever !  ’  it  is  still  nothing ;  let  one 
voice  cry  out,  ‘  How  true !  ’  it  lends  us  quite  a  new  force  and  en¬ 
couragement. 

I  have  no  books,  cannot  by  any  convenient  contrivance  get  any 
books ;  a  little  money  in  this,  as  in  one  or  two  other  matters, 
might  do  something  for  me.  Hast  thou  not  the  Book  of  Nature? 
A  page  of  it ;  but  here,  in  the  Dunscore  Moss,  well-nigh  a  blank 
leaf.  Not  wholly  so.  Bead  it  well. 


229 


Extracts  from  Journal. 

The  most  stupendous  of  gigmen  was  Phaeton  ;  drove  the  brav¬ 
est  gig,  and  with  the  sorrowfullest  results.  An  instance,  too,  of 
what  the  law  of  inheritance  produces.  He  had  built  no  sun  char¬ 
iot  (could  not  build  a  wheelbarrow),  but  would  and  could  insist 
on  driving  one,  and  so  broke  his  own  neck  and  set  fire  to  the 
world. 

July  21. — A  strange  feeling  of  supernaturalism ,  of  ‘the  fearful¬ 
ness  and  wonderfulness  ’  of  life,  haunts  me  and  grows  upon  me. 
Saw  Ben  Nelson  at  Annan;  long  talk  with  him.  Unluckily  my 
habit  (and  the  people’s  habit  with  me)  is  rather  to  speak  than  to 
listen ;  I  mean  it  no  wise  so,  but  so  I  often  find  it  has  proved. 

‘  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Common  Honesty  ’  were  the  use- 
fullest  of  all  societies  could  it  take  effect . 

July  22. — A  foolish  puppet  figure,  which  I  saw  in  a  huckster’s 
shop-window  at  London  in  some  lane,  has  awakened  thoughts  in 
me  which  I  have  not  yet  found  any  words  for  !  To  imagine ;  bil- 
den!  That  is  an  unfathomable  thing. 

As  yet  I  have  never  risen  into  the  region  of  creation.  Am  I  ap¬ 
proaching  it  ?  Ach  Gott  !  sick  ndhern  dem  unciussprechlichen. 

Was  there  ever  a  more  merry-andrew-looking  thing  (if  we  con¬ 
sider  it)  than  for  a  wretched  creature  named  man,  or  gigman, 
alighting  for  one  instant  on  this  ‘  everlasting  earth,’  to  say,  it  is 
mine  !  It ;  consider  what  it  (the  earth)  properly  is — the  reflex  of 
the  living  spirit  of  man,  the  joint  production  of  man  and  God — 

Na^gr  ist  Schall  und  Itauch 
Umnebelnd  Himmelsgluth. 

The  greatest  of  all  past  or  present  anti-gigmen  was  Jesus  Christ. 
This  age  is  quite  especially  wrecked  and  sunk  in  gigmanism. 

Homer’s  ‘  Iliad  ’  would  have  brought  the  author,  had  he  offered 
it  to  Mr.  Murray  on  the  half-profit  system,  say  five-and-twenty 
guineas.  The  Prophecies  of  Isaiah  would  have  made  a  small  ar¬ 
ticle  in  a  review,  which,  paying  not  under  the  rate  of  three  guineas 
a  sheet  (excluding  extracts,  whereof  there  are  none  in  Isaiah),  could 
cheerfully  enough  have  remunerated  him  with  a  five  pound  note. 
To  speak  of  paying  the  writer  of  a  true  book  is,  on  the  whole,  de¬ 
lirium.  The  thing  is  unpayable  ;  the  whole  world  could  not  buy 
it.  Could  the  whole  world  induce  him  by  fee  or  reward  to  write 
it  otherwise — opposite  wise  ?  Then  is  he  no  writer,  only  a  deplo- 


230  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

rable  despicable  scribbler,  waiting  till  the  besom  of  destitution 
sweep  him  away.. 

Authors  are  martyrs — witnesses  for  the  truth — or  else  nothing. 
Money  cannot  make  or  unmake  them.  They  are  made  or  un¬ 
made,  commanded  and  held  back  by  God  Almighty  alone,  whose 
inspiration  it  is  that  givetli  them  understanding ;  yet  for  the  world 
whom  they  address,  for  the  fitness  of  their  language  towards  it, 
their  clearness  of  insight  into  its  interests,  and  the  ear  it  shall  give 
them — for  all  in  short  that  respects  their  revelation  of  themselves 
(not  their  existence  in  themselves) — money,  as  the  epitome  and 
v  magic  talisman  of  all  mechanical  endeavour  whatsoever,  is  of  in¬ 
calculable  importance.  Money  cannot  hire  the  writing  of  a  book, 
but  it  can  the  printing  of  it.  The  existence  of  a  public  library,  or 

non-existence  thereof,  in  the  circle  where  a  thinker  is  born  will 

* 

forward  his  thinking  or  obstruct  and  prevent  it.  When  the 
thinker  has  discovered  truth,  it  depends  on  money  whether  the 
world  shall  participate  in  such  discovery  or  not  participate.  In 
how  many  other  waJs  (as  when  your  nascent  wise  man  is  poor, 
solitary,  uneducated,  &c.)  can  the  ‘talisman  of  power’  cut  away 
impediments  and  open  out  the  path  !  Many  a  fallen  spark  too  is 
quenched,  or  lives  only  as  a  spark,  which  could  have  been  fanned 
into  a  cheerful  light  and  fire.  (No  end  to  all  this,  which  is  to  go 
into  that  paulo  post  future  essay  on  Authors.) 

Cholera  at  Carlisle  ;  a  case  talked  of  in  Annandale.  The  cow¬ 
ardice  or  bravery  of  the  world  manifests  itself  best  in  such  a  sea¬ 
son.  Nothing  lies  in  cholera ,  with  all  its  collapses,  spasms,  blue¬ 
ness  of  skin,  and  what  else  you  like,  ^xcapt  death ,  which  may  lie 
equally  in  a  common  catarrh — in  the  wheel  of  the  nearest  hackney 
Coach.  Yet  here  death  is  original ;  the  dunce  who,  blinded  by  cus¬ 
tom,  has  looked  at  it  in  the  usual  forms,  heedless,  unreasoning, 
now  sqes  it  for  the  first  time,  and  shudders  at  it  as  a  novelty.1 

£  The  special,  sole,  and  deepest  theme  of  the  world’s  and  man’s 

#  * ' 

1  The  cholera  fell  very  heavily  on  Dumfries.  For  want  of  accommodation 
the  sick  were  crowded  together  in  a  single  large  building,  out  of  which  few 
who  had  entered  came  out  alive.  The  town  was  terror  struck.  Carlyle  told 
me  that  the  panic  at  last  reached  the  clergy,  who  were  afraid  to  go  within  the 
door  of  that  horrible  charnel  house  to  help  the  dying  in  their  passage  into 
eternity,  but  preached  to  them  from  the  outside  through  the  open  windows. 
He  had  no  love  for  Catholic  priests  and  what  he  called  their  poisoned  ginger¬ 
bread  consolations  ;  but  in  this  instance  he  bore  an  ungrudging  testimony 
that  the  only  minister  of  religion  who  ventured  in  among  the  sick  beds  was 
a  poor  priest ;  and  the  poor  priest,  alas  !  caught  the  infection  and  died. 


Mrs.  Carlyle. 


231 


history,  whereto  all  other  themes  are  subordinated,  remains  the 
conflict  of  unbelief  and  belief.  All  epochs  wherein  belief  prevails, 
under  what  form  it  will,  are  splendid,  heart-elevating,  fruitful  for 
contemporaries  and  posterity.  All  epochs,  on  the  contrary,  where 
unbelief,  in  what  form  soever,  maintains  its  sorry  victory,  should 
they  even  for  a  moment  glitter  with  a  sham  splendour,  vanish 
from  the  eyes  of  posterity,  because  no  one  chooses  to  burden  him¬ 
self  with  a  study  of  the  unfruitful.’ — ‘Goethe’s  Works,’  vi.  159,  on 
Moses  and  his  Exodus. 

These  notes  show  liow  powerfully  Carlyle’s  intellect  w&s 
working,  how  he  was  cutting  out  an  original  road  for  him¬ 
self,  far  away  from  the  .Radicalism  of  the  day.  But  it  is 
in  the  nature  of  such  thoughts  that  they  draw  off  a  man’s 
attention  from  what  is  round  him,  and  prevent  him  from 
attending  to  the  thousand  little  things  and  the  many  great 
things  of  which  the  commonplaces  of  life  are  composed. 
Yocal  as  he  was — pouring  out  whatever  wks  in  him  in  a 
stream  of  talk  for  hours  together — he  was  not  the  cheer- 
fullest  of  companions.  He  spoke  much  of  hope,  but  he 
was  never  hopeful.  The  wrorld  was  not  moving  to  his 
mind.  His  anticipations  were  habitually  gloomy.  The 
persons  with  whom  he  had  come  in  contact  fell  short  of 
the  demands  which  the  sternness  of  his  temper  was  in¬ 
clined  to  make  on  thorn, jfrom  the  drudge  who  had  ill- 
cleaned  a  vegetable  di^S,  to  the  man  of  letters  who  had 
written  a  silly  article,  or  the  Phaeton  who  was  driving 
the  State  chariot  through  the  wrong  constellations.  Thus, 
although  indigestion,  which  interfered  with  his  working, 
recalled  his  impatience  to  himself,  he  could  leaA^  his  wife 
to  ill-health  and  toil,  assuming  that  all  was  well  as, long  as 
she  did  not  complain ;  and  it  was  plain  to  every  one  of  her 
friends,  before  it  was  Suspected  by  her  husband,  that  the 
hard,  solitary  life  on  the  moor  was  trying  severely  both 
Jier  constitution  and  her  nerves. 

Carlyle  saw,  and  yet  was  blind.  If  she  suffered  she 
concealed  her  trials  from  him,  lest  his  work  should  suffer 


232 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


also.  But  she  took  refuge  in  a  kind  of  stoicism,  which 
was  hut  a  thin  disguise  for  disappointment  and  at  times 
for  misery.  It  was  a  sad  fate  for  a  person  so  bright  and 
gifted ;  and  if  she  could  endure  it  for  herself,  others,  and 
especially  Jeffrey,  were  not  inclined  to  endure  it  for  her. 
Jeffrey  had  been  often  in  Ampton  Street,  claiming  the 
privileged  intimacy  of  a  cousin.  Eyes  so  keen  as  the  Lord 
Advocate’s  could  not  fail  to  see  how  things  were  going 
with  her.  She  herself  perhaps  did  not  hide  from  him  that 
the  thought  of  being  again  immured  in  Craigenputtock  was 
horrible  to  her.  Liking  and  even  honouring  Carlyle  as  he 
did,  he  did  not  like  his  faults,  and  the  Lord  Advocate  was 
slightly  irritated  at  the  reception  wdiich  Carlyle  had  met 
with  in  London,  as  tending  to  confirm  him  in  the  illusion 
that  he  was  a  prophet  of  a  new  religion.  He  continued  to 
write  to  Mrs.  Carlyle  tenderly  and  even  passionately,  as  he 
would  have  written  to  a  daughter  of  his  own.  It  was  in¬ 
tolerable  to  him  to  think  of  her  with  her  fine  talents  lost 
to  all  the  enjoyments  that  belonged  to  her  age  and  charac¬ 
ter,  and  provoking  to  feel  that  it  was  owing  to  moody  fan¬ 
cies  too  long  cherished,  and  fantastic  opinions  engendered 
and  fed  in  solitude.  She  made  the  best  of  her  position,  as 
she  always  did.  She  had  been  greatly  interested  in  the 
daughter  of  her  landlady  in  Ampton  Street,  Miss  Eliza 
Miles,  who  had  so  romantically  returned  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  re¬ 
gard,  that  she  had  proposed  to  go  back  with  her  as  a  ser¬ 
vant.  to  Craigenputtock.  Mrs.  Carlyle  knew  too  well  what 
Craigenputtock  was  to  allow  her  to  accept  Miss  Miles’s  of¬ 
fer.  She  wrote  to  her  occasionally,  however,  in  the  sum¬ 
mer  which  followed  their  stay  in  London,  and  invited  her 
to  pay  the  place  a  visit. 

To  Miss  Eliza  Miles. 

* 

Craigenputtock :  June  16, 1832. 

My  dear  Eliza, — I  could  wager  you  now  think  the  Scots  a  less 
amiable  nation  than  you  had  supposed,  least  of  all  to  be  com- 


i*  t* 


*  i 


233 


Life  at  OraigenjpuUocJc. 

mended  on  the  score  of  good  faith.  Is  it  not  so  ?  Has  not  my 
whole  nation  suffered  in  your  opinion  through  my  solitary  fault. 
In  February  I  made  a  voluntary  engagement  to  write  to  you,  which 
now  in  June  remains  to  be  fulfilled.  Still  I  am  fulfilling  it,  which 
proves  that  it  is  not  altogether  ‘  out  of  sight  out  of  mind  ’  with 
me  ;  and  could  I  give  you  an  idea  of  the  tumult  I  have  been  in 
since  we  parted,  you  would  find  me  excusable  if  not  blameless.  I 
never  forgot  my  gentle  Ariel  in  Ampton  Street ;  it  were  positive 
sin  to  forget  her,  so  helpful  she,  so  trustful,  so  kind  and  good. 
Besides,  this  is  the  place  of  all  others  for  thinking  of  absent 
friends,  where  one  has  so  seldom  any  present  to  think  of.  It  is 
the  stillest,  solitariest  place  that  it  ever  entered  your  imagina¬ 
tion  to  conceive,  where  one  has  the  strangest  shadowy  existence. 
Nothing  is  actual  in  it  but  the  food  we  eat,  the  bed  one  sleeps  on, 
and,  praised  be  Heaven,  the  fine  air  one  breathes.  The  rest  is  all 
a  dream  of  the  absent  and  distant,  of  things  past  and  to  come.  I 
w-as  fatigued  enough  by  the  journey  home,  still  more  by  the  bus¬ 
tling  which  awaited  me  there — a  dismantled  house,  no  effectual 
servants,  weak  health,  and,  worse  than  the  seven  plagues  of  Egypt, 
a  necessity  of  painters.  All  these  things  were  against  me.  But 
happily  there  is  a  continual  tide  in  human  affairs  ;  and  if  a  little 
while  ago  I  was  near  being  swept  away  in  the  hubbub,  so  now 
I  find  myself  in  a  dead  calm.  All  is  again  in  order  about  us,  and 
I  fold  my  hands  and  ask  what  is  to  be  done  next  ? 

‘  The  duty  nearest  hand  will  show  itself  in  course.’  So  my 
Goethe  teaches.  No  one  who  lays  the  precept  to  heart  can  ever 
be  at  a  stand.  Impress  it  on  your  ‘  twenty  ’  children  (that  I  think 
was  the  number  you  had  fixed  upon).  Impress  it  on  the  whole 
twenty  from  the  cradle  upwards,  and  you  will  spare  your  sons  the 
vexation  of  many  a  wild-goose  chase,  and  render  your  daughters 
for  ever  impracticable  to  ennui.  Shame  that  such  a  malady  should 
exist  in  a  Christian  land :  should  not  only  exist,  but  be  almost'gen- 
eral  throughout  the  whole  female  population  that  is  placed  above 
the  necessity  of  working  for  daily  bread.  If  I  have  an  antipathy  for 
any  class  of  people  it  is  ion  fine  ladies .  I  almost  match  my  husband’s 
detestation  of  partridge-shooting  gentlemen.  Woe  to  the  fine  lady 
who  should  find  herself  set  down  at  Craigenputtock  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  left  alone  with  her  own  thoughts — no  1  fancy  bazaar  ’ 
in  the  same  kingdom  with  her ;  no  place  of  amusement  within  a  day’s 
journey  ;  the  very  church,  her  last  imaginable  resource,  seven  miles 
off.  I  can  fancy  with  what  horror  she  would  look  on  the  ridge 


234  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

of  mountains  that  seemed  to  enclose  lier  from  all  earthly  bliss  ; 
with  what  despair  in  her  accents  she  would  inquire  if  there  was 
not  even  a  4  charity  sale  ’  within  reach.  Alas,  no  !  no  outlet  what¬ 
ever  for  4  lady’s  work,’  not  even  a  book  for  a  tine  lady’s  under¬ 
standing.  It  is  plain  she  would  have  nothing  for  it  but  to  die  as 
speedily  as  possible,  and  so  relieve  the  world  of  the  expense  of 
her  maintenance.  For  my  part  I  am  very  content.  I  have  every¬ 
thing  here  my  heart  desires  that  I  could  have  anywhere  else,  ex¬ 
cept  society,  and  even  that  deprivation  is  not  to  be  considered 
wholly  an  evil.  If  people  we  like  and  take  pleasure  in  do  not 
come  about  us  here  as  in  London,  it  is  thankfully  to  be  remem¬ 
bered  that  4  here  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest.’  If  the  knocker  make  no  sound  for  weeks  together,  it 
is  so  much  the  better  for  my  nerves.  My  husband  is  as  good 
company  as  reasonable  mortal  could  desire.  Every  fair  morning 
we  ride  on  horseback  for  an  hour  before  breakfast.  My  precious 
horse  knew  me  again,  and  neighed  loud  and  long  when  he  found 
himself  in  his  old  place.  And  then  we  eat  such  a  surprising 
breakfast  of  liomebaked  bread  and  eggs,  &c.  &c.  as  might  incite 
anyone  that  had  breakfasted  so  long  in  London  to  write  a  pastoral. 
Then  Carlyle  takes  to  his  writing,  w-hile  I,  like  Eve,  4  studious  of 
household  good,’  inspect  my  house,  my  garden,  my  live  stock, 
gather  flowers  for  my  drawing-room,  and  lajhuls  of  eggs,  and 
finally  betake  myself  also  to  writing  or  reading  or  making  or 
mending,  or  whatever  work  seems  fittest.  After  dinner,  and  only 
then,  I  lie  on  the  sofa  (to  my  shame  be  it  spoken),  sometimes 
sleep,  but  oftenest  dream  waking.  In  the  evening  I  walk  on  the 
moor — how  different  from  Holborn  and  the  Strand! — and  read 
anything  that  does  not  exact  much  attention.  Such  is  my  life, 
agreeable  as  yet  from  its  novelty  if  for  nothing  else.  Now  would 
you  not  like  to  share  it  ?  I  am  sure  you  would  be  happy  beside 
us  for  a  while,  and  healthy,  for  I  would  keep  all  drugs  from  your 
lips,  and  pour  warm  milk  into  you.  Could  you  not  find  an  escort 
and  come  and  try  ?  At  all  rates  write  and  tell  me  how  you  are, 
what  doing,  what  intending.  I  shall  always  be  interested  in  all 
that  concerns  you.  My  health  is  slowly  mending. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Qabltle. 

This  is  pretty,  and  it  shows  Craigenpnttock  on  its  fairest 
side.  But  there  was  a  reverse  of  the  picture.  I  have  not 


The  Desert. 


235 


seen  any  of  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  letters  to  Jeffrey,  but  in  one  of 
them  she  sent  some  verses.  It  was  summer,  for  there 
were  rose  leaves  along  with  them,  for  which  Jeffrey  seem? 
to  have  asked.  That  the  verses  below  were  written  at 
Graigenputtock  is  certain,  for  they  are  dated  from  ‘  The 
Desert.’  Time,  circumstances,  and  Jeffrey’s  own  acknowl¬ 
edgment  that  she  had  sent  him  verses  of  some  kind,  make 
it  almost  certain  that  they  belong  to  this  particular  pe¬ 
riod.  I  find  them  among  loose  fragments  in  her  own 
portfolio : — 


To  a  Swallow  building  under  our  Eaves. 

Thou  too  hast  travelled,  little  fluttering  thing — 
Hast  seen  the  world,  and  now  tliy  weary  wing 
Thou  too  must  rest. 

But  much,  my  little  bird,  couldst  thou  but  tell, 
I’d  give  to  know  why  here  thou  lik’st  so  well 
To  build  thy  nest. 

For  thou  hast  passed  fair  places  in  thy  flight ; 

A  world  lay  all  beneath  thee  where  to  light ; 

And,  strange  thy  taste, 

Of  all  the  varied  scenes  that  met  thine  eye — 

Of  all  the  spots  for  building  ’neath  the  sky — 

To  choose  this  waste. 

Did  fortune  try  thee  ?  was  thy  little  purse 
Perchance  run  low,  and  thou,  afraid  of  worse, 

Felt  here  secure  ? 

Ah,  no !  thou  need’st  not  gold,  thou  happy  one ! 
Thou  lmow’st  it  not.  Of  all  God’s  creatures,  man 
.Alone  is  poor ! 

What  was  it,  then  ?  some  mystic  turn  of  thought, 
Caught  under  German  eaves,  and  hither  brought, 
Marring  thine  eye 

For  the  world’s  loveliness,  till  thou  art  grown 
A  sober  thing  that  dost  but  mope  and  moan 
Not  knowing  why  ? 


236 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Nay,  if  thy  mind  be  sound,  I  need  not  ask, 

Since  here  I  see  thee  working  at  thy  task 
With  wing  and  beak. 

A  well-laid  scheme  doth  that  small  head  contain, 

At  which  thou  work’st,  brave  bird,  with  might  and  main, 
Nor  more  need’st  seek. 

In  truth,  I  rather  take  it  thou  hast  got 
By  instinct  wise  much  sense  about  thy  lot, 

And  hast  small  care 
Whether  an  Eden  or  a  desert  be 
Thy  home  so  thou  remain’st  alive,  and  free 
To  skim  the  air. 

God  speed  thee,  pretty  bird  ;  may  thy  small  nest 
With  little  ones  ail  in  good  time  be  blest. 

I  love  thee  much  ; 

For  well  thou  managest  that  life  of  thine, 

While  I !  Oh,  ask  not  what  I  do  with  mine ! 

Would  I  were  such  ! 


The  Desert. 


CHAPTER  XHI. 


A.D.  1832.  JET.  37. 

Jeffrey  carried  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  sad  verses  with  him  to  the 
‘  glades  ’  of  Richmond,  to  muse  upon  them,  and  fret  over 
his  helplessness.  To  him  his  cousin’s  situation  had  no  re¬ 
lieving  feature,  for  he  believed  that  Carlyle  was  entered 
on  a  course  which  would  end  only  less  ruinously  than  Ir¬ 
ving’s— that  he  was  sacrificing  his  own  prospects,  as  well 
as  his  wife’s  happiness,  to  arrogant  illusions.  The  fact 
was  not  as  Jeffrey  saw  it.  Carlyle  wTas  a  knight  errant, 
on  the  noblest  quest  which  can  animate  a  man.  He  was 
on  the  right  road,  though  it  was  a  hard  one ;  but  the  lot 
of  the  poor  lady  who  was  dragged  along  at  his  bridle-rein 
to  be  the  humble  minister  of  his  necessities  was  scarcely 
less  tragic.  One  comfort  she  had — he  had  recovered  her 
pony  for  her,  and  she  could  occasionally  ride  wfith  him. 
His  mother  came  now  and  then  to  Craigenputtock  to  stay 
for  a  few  days;  or  when  a  bit  of  work  was  done  they 
would  themselves  drive  over  to  Scotsbrig.  So  far  as  Car¬ 
lyle  himself  was  concerned,  his  letters  give  an  unusually 
pleasant  impression  of  his  existing  condition. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

Craigenputtock  :  June  29,  1832. 

My  dear  Mother, — You  shall  have  a  short  note  from  me,  though 
my  task  should  stand  half  done  all  night.  Peter  Austin  I  expect 
will  take  you  this  on  Monday,  and  tell  you  all  about  our  last  peat¬ 
leading,  and  what  not ;  but  I  imagine  you  will  not  dislike  a  word 
under  my  own  hand  also. 

Thank  Jean  for  her  letter :  it  gave  us  great  relief  to  know  that 


2.38 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


you.  were  getting  into  your  natural  way  again ;  that  the  rest  were 
all  in  theirs.  Let  us  hope  this  good  state  of  matters  still  holds. 
As  for  yourself,  I  think  you  must  go  and  have  a  plunge  in  the  Sol¬ 
way  this  fine  weather.  When  I  come  down  next  I  will  try  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  moon,  bring  the  clatch  with  me,  and  roll  you  along 
therein  myself.  I  too  want  much  to  be  bathed. 

We  are  all  going  on  as  you  saw  us,  or  better.  Jane  is  a  little 
out-of-sorts  these  two  or  three  days,  but  in  general  seems  clearly 
improving.  The  boy  has  cleaned  the  garden,  which  looks  well 
now,  and  is  at  this  moment  slashing  like  a  Waterloo  hero  among 
the  nettle  and  dock  hosts  over  the  paling.  I  hope  they  will  not 
smother  him  up,  but  that  his  little  arm  and  blunt  hook  will  cut 
a  way  through  them.  Betty  has  got  ‘Noolly  ’  (the  cow)  back  again, 
little  improved  in  temper,  she  says.  Soft  grass  will  soften  her. 

As  for  myself,  I  am  doing  my  utmost,  and  seeing,  as  you  coun¬ 
selled,  not  ‘to  make  it  too  high.’  In  spite  of  ‘the  Taylors’  ap¬ 
plauses  ’  I  find  myself  but  a  liandless  workman  too  often,  and  can 
only  get  on  by  a  dead  struggle.  This  thing,  I  calculate,  will  be 
over  in  two  weeks,  and  so  the  stone  rolled  from  my  heart  again — 
for  a  little.  I  mean  to  run  over  and  ask  what  you  are  doing 
shortly  after ;  most  probably  I  will  write  first,  by  Notmaii.1  For 
the  rest,  I  am  well  enough,  and  cannot  complain  while  busy.  I  go 
riding  every  fair  morning,  sometimes  as  early  as  six,  and  enjoy 
this  blessed  June  weather,  oftenest  on  the  Gallowviy  side,  the  road 
being  open  and  good  now.  My  beast  is  wholly  satisfactory :  learns 
•  fast  to  ride,  is  already  a  good  canterer,  tame,  quiet,  and  biddable 
as  ever  horse  was.  The  boy  has  had  it  in  the  cart,  too,  and  finds 
no  difficulty  in  handling  it.  So,  dear  mother,  on  that  head  set 
your  heart  at  rest. 

No  ‘  Examiner  ’  came  this  week,  I  have  charged  Alick  to  send 
you  over  the  ‘  Courier  ’  by  Peter.  The  following  week  you  will 
find  either  it  or  something  at  the  post  office  at  the  usual  time. 
Any  way  there  are  no  news  of  moment.  The  poor  old  King  has 
been  hit  (by  a  solitary  blackguard)  with  a  stone.  Wellington  was 
peppered  with  ‘  mud  and  dead  cats  ’  along  the  whole  length  of 
London.  I  am  sad  for  him,  yet  cannot  but  laugh  to  think  of  the 
business  :  the  cast-metal  man  riding  slowly  five  long  miles,  all  the 
way  like  a  pillar  of  glass  !  Every  beast,  you  see,  has  its  burden ; 
every  dog  its  day. 

Now,  dear  mother,  you  see  I  must  finish.  My  brotherly  love  to 


1  The  carrier. 


Life  at  Craigenputtock.  239 

them  all.  Take  care  of  yourself,  and  let  me  find  you  well.  All 
good  be  with  you  all,  now  and  ever ! 

Your  affectionate  son, 

T.  Carlyle. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Naples. 

Craigenputtock  :  July  2,  1832. 

We  are  all  well,  and  where  we  were.  Our  mother  was  herewith 
us  for  a  fortnight  not  quite  three  weeks  ago,  and  I  took  her  down 
in  the  gig,  by  Alick’s,  too,  in  whose  house  and  farm  1  we  found 
all  prosperous.  He  was  making  a  gate  when  we  came  up  to  the 
brae,  but  soon  threw  down  his  axes  in  a  delight  to  see  us.  It  is 
thought  he  has  not  changed  for  the  worse,  and  may  do  well  in  the 
Water  of  Milk,  which  he  looks  like  doing,  for  there  is  a  great  im¬ 
provement  in  him,  and  increase  not  only  of  gravity,  but  of  earnest 
sense  and  courage.  His  little  girl  is  a  queer,  gleg,  crowing  crea¬ 
ture,  whom  he  takes  much  delight  in.  Jamie,  too,  and  the  sisters 
are  doing  well,  and  seem  to  go  on  judiciously  enough  together,  a 
proper  enough  spirit  seeming  to  pervade  all  of  them.  Our  good 
mother  is  very  serious,  almost  sad  (as  she  well  may  be),  yet  not 
unhealthy,  not  altogether  heavy  of  heart.  She  has  her  trust  on 
what  cannot  die. 

Such  much  for  Annandale,  where  you  see  there  are,  as  our 
mother  piously  says,  many  mercies  still  allotted  to  us. 

As  to  Craigenputtock,  it  is,  as  formerly,  the  scene  of  scribble-* 
scribbling.  Jane  is  in  a  weakly  state  still,  but  I  think  clearly 
gathering  strength.  Her  life  beside  me  constantly  writing  here  is 
but  a  dull  one  ;  however,  she  seems  to  desire  no  other ;  has,  in 
many  things,  pronounced  the  word  Entsagen ,  and  looks  with  a 
brave  if  with  no  joyful  heart  into  the  present  and  the  future.  She 
manages  all  things — poultry,  flowers,  bread-loaves  ;  keeps  a  house 
still  like  a  bandbox,  then  reads,  or  works  (as  at  present)  on  some 
translation  from  Goethe.  I  tell  her  many  times  there  is  much  for 
her  to  do  if  she  were  trained  to  it  :  her  whole  sex  to  deliver  from 
the  bondage  of  frivolity,  dollhood,  and  imbecility,  into  the  free¬ 
dom  of  valour  and  womanhood.  Our  piano  is  quite  out  of  tune, 
and  little  better  than  a  stocking-frame ;  this  is  an  evil  not  reme¬ 
diable  just  yet,  so  we  must  want  music.  We  have  a  boy  servant 
named  McWhir,  a  brisk,  wise  little  fellow,  who  can  scour  knives, 
weed  carrot  beds,  yoke  gigs,  trim  saddle-horses,  go  errands,  and 

1  New  farm  to  which  Alick  Carlyle  had  removed,  called  Catlinns. 


240 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

cart  coals — a  very  factotum  of  a  boy — at  the  rate  of  one  sovereign 
per  semestre.  He  brings  the  horses  round  every  favourable  morn¬ 
ing  (Alick  and  Jamie  got  me  a  noble  gray  mare  at  Longtown),  and 
Jane  and  I  go  off  riding,  for  which  we  have  now  two  roads,  the 
Glaister  Hill  one  being  remade  and  smoothed,  and  a  bridge  just 
about  built  over  the  Orr.  Our  weather  in  these  mornings  would 
hardly  do  discredit  to  Italy  itself.  Furthermore,  a  huge  stack 
of  the  blackest  peats  was  built  up  for  us  last  week.  McWhir  has 
cleaned  the  garden,  full  of  roses  now,  has  hewn  down  innumerable 
nettle  and  dock  weeds  in  the  ‘  new  wood,’  where  some  of  the  trees 
are  quite  high,  and  is  busy  this  day  weeding  the  ‘hedge’  and 
the  walk.  We  have  had  no  visits  but  one  of  a  day  from  John 
Welsh  of  Liverpool,  who  seemed  happy  and  fished  in  the  Orr.  I 
have  work  enough ;  respect  more  than  I  deserve ;  am  not  without 
thoughts  from  time  to  time  ;  and  so  we  play  our  part.  Of  my  writ¬ 
ings  this  is  the  list :  one  often  mentioned  on  Samuel  Johnson, 
which  you  will  one  day  read  with  a  little  pleasure  ;  a  Trauerrede, 
also  often  mentioned,  on  the  Death  of  Goethe,  printed  in  Bulwer’s 
Magazine,  never  yet  paid  for,  or  seen  by  me  in  print ;  a  specula¬ 
tive-radical  discussion  of  some  ‘  Corn-Law  Rhymes  ’  (bold  enough, 
yet  with  an  innocent  smile  on  its  countenance),  of  which  I  cor¬ 
rected  the  proof  (twenty-four  pages)  the  week  before  last  for 
Napier ;  finally,  this  thing  I  am  now  at  the  thirtieth  page  of,  on 
Goethe's  Works ,  a  barocque  incongruous  concern,  which  I  am  prin¬ 
cipally  anxious  to  get  done  with.  James  Fraser  is  again  willing  to 
employ  me  (though  at  that  double  rate),  the  people  having  praised 
Johnson.  With  the  editorial  world,  in  these  mad  times,  I  stand  at 
present  on  quite  tolerable  footing.  I  mean  to  be  in  Edinburgh 
some  time  before  very  long,  and  keep  matters  going.  Here,  too, 
let  me  mention  that  I  am  at  no  loss  for  money  myself,  and  have 
safely  received  your  remittance  of  100Z.,  and  written  to  Alick  that 
I  will  bring  it  down  with  me  next  time,  or  send  it  sooner ;  to  Jef¬ 
frey  I  will  write  a  fit  message  on  the  same  subject  to-morrow.1 
All  friends  were  touched  with  a  kind  of  wae  joy  to  see,  as  I  said, 
‘  the  colour  of  Jack’s  money,’  after  so  many  misventures  and  foiled 
struggles.  Poor  Jack  will  be  himself  again,  in  spite  of  all  that, 
and  make  the  world  stand  about,  stiff  as  it  is,  and  make  a  little 
(straight)  pathkin  for  him.  Fear  it  not :  you  are  already  free  of 

1  John  Carlyle  had  received  money  from  Jeffrey  besides  the  advances  which 
he  had  received  from  his  brother.  He  was  now  diligently  paying  all  his 
debts. 


241 


Details  of  Work. 

debt,  and  in  that  the  miserablest  of  all  millstones  is  rolled  from 
off  yon.  I  too  expect  to  pay  the  Advocate  his  money  (perhaps 
along  with  yours)  :  then  I  too  shall  owe  no  man  anything.  Anti- 
gigmanism  is  the  fixed  unalterable  Athanasian  Creed  of  this  house  : 
Jane  is  almost  stronger  in  it  (and  in  Anti-fine-ladyism)  than  my¬ 
self.  So  while  the  fingers  will  wag,  and  the  head  and  heart  are 
uncracked,  why  should  we  care  ?  The  world  is  a  thing  that  a  man 
must  learn  to  despise,  and  even  to  neglect,  before  he  can  learn  to 
reverence  it,  and  work  in  it,  and  for  it. 

Of  external  persons  or  news  we  hear  or  see  little.  Mrs.  Strachey 
sent  an  apologetic  little  letter  to  Jane  the  other  week.  She  was 
just  leaving  Shooter’s  Hill,  and  about  settling  in  Devonshire,  I 
think  at  Torquay.  She  is  earnest,  sad,  but  not  broken  or  dis¬ 
pirited.  From  John  Mill  I  had  a  kind  sheet  of  news  and  specula¬ 
tions.  Mrs.  Austin  wrote  lately  that  Goethe’s  last  words  were, 
Mctcht  die  Fensterladen  auf,  damit  ich  mehr  Licht  belcomme  !  Glori¬ 
ous  man !  Happy  man  !  I  never  think  of  him  but  with  reverence 
and  pride.  Jeremy  Bentham  is  dead,  and  made  his  body  be  lec¬ 
tured  over  in  some  of  their  anatomical  schools — by  Southwood 
Smith,  I  think.  You  have  likely  seen  this  in  the  papers  ;  also  that 
Sir  Walter  Scott  lies  struck  with  apoplexy,  deprived  of  conscious¬ 
ness,  and  exx>ected  inevitably  to  die,  at  an  hotel  in  Jermyn  Street ! 
He  has  a  son  and  daughter  there  too  ;  and  dies  in  an  inn.  I  could 
almost  cry  for  it.  Oh  all-devouring  Time  !  Oh  unfathomable 
Eternity  I  Edward  Irving  is  out  of  his  chapel,  and  seems  to  be 
X3reaching  often  in  the  fields.  He  has  rented  Owen’s  huge,  ugly 
bazaar  (they  say)  in  Gray’s  Inn  Boad,  at  seven  guineas  a  week,  and 
lectures  there  every  morning.  Owen  the  Atheist,  and  Irving  the 
Gif  t-of-Tongues-ist,  time  about :  it  is  a  mad  world.  Who  our  poor 
friend’s  audience  are  I  hear  not.  It  is  said  many  even  of  his  wo¬ 
men  have  given  in.  Some  of  his  adherents  seem  to  come  before 
the  £>olice  occasionally  when  they  gather  crowds  on  the  street. 
His  father,  worthy  old  Gavin,  was  taken  away,  a  few  days  ago, 
from  sight  of  these  perversities.  Electioneering  goes  on  here,  in 
which  I  take  no  interest,  more  than  in  a  better  or  worse  terrier- 
fight.  Beform-bill-ing  is  the  universal  business,  not  mine.  .  .  . 

I  wholly  understand  your  internal  contentions  at  this  period — 
the  struggling,  Verwerfen ,  and  Aufnehmen  that  you  have.  It  is  a 
heavy  burden  on  the  shoulders  of  every  true  man,  sioecially  at  this 
epoch  of  the  world.  It  is  by  action,  however,  that  we  learn  and 
attain  certainty.  The  time  for  this  with  you  is  coming  ;  be  ready 

Vol.  II.— 16 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


24:2 

for  it.  You  have  my  deepest  sympathy  in  these  spiritual  trials  ; 
nevertheless  I  see  them  to  be  necessary.  Not  till  now  have  you 
decidedly  looked  to  me  as  if  you  were  about  becoming  a  man,  and 
finding  a  manful  basis  for  yourself.  I  have  better  hope  than  ever 
that  it  will  turn  for  good.  Keep  up  your  heart,  my  dear  brother ; 
show  yourself  a  valiant  man,  worthy  of  the  name  you  bear  (for  you 
too  bear  the  name  of  a  brave  man),  worthy  of  yourself.  Trust  in 
me  ;  love  me.  God  forever  bless  you  ! 

Your  affectionate 

T.  Carlyle. 

So  passed  the  summer.  The  Goethe  paper  (which  did 
not  please  him  :  4  the  time  not  having  come  to  speak  prop¬ 
erly  about  Goethe  ’)  being  finished  and  despatched,  Car¬ 
lyle  took  up  Diderot.  Diderot’s  works,  five  and  twenty 
large  volumes  of  them,  were  to  be  read  through  before  he 
could  put  pen  to  paper.  He  could  read  with  extraordinary 
perseverance  from  nine  in  the  morning  till  ten  at  night 
without  intermission  save  for  his  meals  and  his  pipes. 
The  twelfth  of  August  brought  the  grouse  shooting  and 
young  Welsh  relations  with  guns,  who  drove  him  out  of 
his  house,  and  sent  him  on  a  few  clays’  riding  tour  about 
the  country.  On  returning  he  at  once  let  the  shooting  of 
Craigenputtoek,  that  he  might  be  troubled  with  such  vis¬ 
itors  no  more.  A  small  domestic  catastrophe  followed,  the 
maid-servant  having  misconducted  herself  and  having  to 
be  sent  away  at  an  hour’s  notice.  Her  place  could  not  be 
immediately  filled,  and  all  the  work  fell  on  Mrs.  Carlyle. 

‘  Oh  mother,  mother  !  ’  exclaimed  Carlyle  in  telling  her  the 
story,  4  what  trouble  the  Devil  does  give  us ;  how  busy  he 
is  wheresoever  men  are  1  I  could  not  have  fancied  this 
unhappy,  shameless,  heartless  creature  would  have  proved 
herself  so  ;  but  she  was  long  known  for  a  person  that  did 
not  speak  the  truth ,  and  of  such  (as  I  have  often  remarked) 
there  never  comes  good.’ 

Meanwhile  £  he  stuck,’  as  he  said,  c  like  a  burr  to  his 
reading,  and  managed  a  volume  every  lawful  day  (week 


243 


Details  of  Work. 

day).  On  Sabbath  he  read  to  his  assembled  household,  (his 
wife,  the  maid,  and  the  stable-boy)  in  the  Book  of  Genesis,’ 
And  so  the  time  wore  on.  A 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Naples. 

Craigenputtock  :  August  31,  18S2. 

Yonr  letters,  I  see,  are  all  opened  and  re-sealed  again  before 
they  arrive ;  but  it  makes  little  difference,  since  such  is  the  will 
of  the  Potentates,  poor  fellows.  We  have  no  Carbonari  secrets  to 
treat  of,  and  are  quite  willing  to  let  any  biped  or  quadruped  reign 
in  Italy,  or  out  of  it,  so  long  as  he  can. 

All  is  well  here  in  its  old  course.  My  article  works  are  all  pub¬ 
lished,  and  away  from  me.  The  Goethe,  which  was  the  last  of 
them,  went  off  in  a  printed  shape  to  Catlinns  on  Wednesday.  It 
is  a  poor,  fragmentary  thing ;  some  of  it  was  put  into  Teufels- 
drockh’s  mouth,  and  I  had  a  letter  from  London  since  asking 
where Teufelsdrockh’s  great  work  (‘Die  Kleider  ’)  was  to  be  fallen 
in  with  !  Did  I  say  that  the  ‘  Corn-law  Rhymes  ’  was  printed  with¬ 
out  the  slightest  mutilation  ?  So  far  well !  I  have  now  written  to 
Napier  to  pay  me  for  it,  and  with  the  proceeds  mean  forthwith  to 
clear  scores  with  the  ‘Advocate,’  and  sign  myself  Nemini  Debens. 
This  is  one  fruit  which  springs  from  my  labours ;  and  why  should 
I  calculate  on  any  other  ?  There  are  two  little  translations  of 
mine  off  to  Fraser — the  ‘  Malirclien,’  with  a  Commentary  ;  a  shorter 
piece  named  ‘  Novelle.’  F.  is  very  complaisant  with  me  ;  whether 
he  acceiff  or  reject  these  trifles  is  left  with  himself.  My  next  task 
is  a  very  tedious  one,  an  essay  on  Diderot ;  as  a  preliminary  for 
which  I  have  twenty-five  octavo  volumes  to  read,  and  only  some 
eight  of  them  done  yet.  It  will  serve  me  till  the  end  of  Septem¬ 
ber,  and  be  worth  next  to  nothing  when  done.  I  have  engaged 
for  it,  and  must  accomplish  it.  For  the  rest,  be  under  no  fear  lest 
I  overwork  myself.  Alas  !  quite  the  other  danger  is  to  be  dreaded. 
I  do  not  neglect  walking  or  riding  (as,  for  instance,  this  morning). 
Besides,  the  air  here  is  quite  specially  bracing  and  good.  I  have 
had  a  kind  of  fixed  persuasion  of  late  that  I  was  one  day  to  get 
quite  well  again,  or  nearly  so — some  day,  that  is,  between  this  and 
the  Greek  kalends.  Indeed,  on  the  whole,  I  am  full  of  a  senti¬ 
ment  which  I  name  ‘  desperate  hope,’  and  have  long  been  getting 
fuller.  "We  shall  see  what  will  come  of  it.  Meanwhile,  in  my  im¬ 
prisonment  here,  whether  for  life  or  not,  I  have  bethought  me 
that  I  ought  to  get  infinitely  more  reading  than  I  have  now  means 


244  *  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

of,  and  will  get  it  one  way  or  other,  though  the  Dumfries  libraries 
I  have  been  prying  into  the  rules  and  state  of  as  yet  yield  nothing. 
A  very  large  mass  of  magazines,  reviews,  and  such  like,  1  have 
consumed  like  smoke  within  the  last  month,  gaining,  I  think,  no 
knowledge  except  of  the  no-knowledge  of  the  writing  world. 
Books  produce  a  strange  effect  on  me  Lere:  I  swallow  them  with 
such  unpausing  impetuosity  from  early  morning  to  late  night,  and 
get  altogether  filled  and  intoxicated  with  them.  -  A  little  talk  were 
wholesome  dissipation  for  me,  but  it  is  not  to  be  had,  and  one  can 
do  without  it.  My  Janekin,  if  not  a  great  speaker,  is  the  best  of 
listeners,  and  what  she  does  say  is  in  general  real  speech  and  not 
clatter.  * 

On  Monday,  the  13th  of  this  month,  apprehending  with  reason 
an  inroad  of  grouse -killers,  I  fled  about  six  in  the  morning  (as  it 
had  been  previously  arranged)  into  Galloway.  I  breakfasted  with 
Skirving  of  Croys,  rode  through  Castle  Douglas  with  its  withered 
‘  Reform  Jubilee  ’  triumphal  arch  (most  villages  have  had  such), 
and  about  two  o’clock  was  in  the  parlour  of  Kirk  Christ.  The 
Churches  were  in  high  spirits  to  see  me ;  I  remembered  wfith  a 
kind  of  shudder  that  it  was  nine  years  since  you  and  I  went  thither 
on  my  last  previous  visit.  The  old  people  are  hardly  changed, 
look  healthy  and  prosperous ;  all  was  trim  about  them,  flourish¬ 
ing  crops,  and  the  hope  of  harvest  just  about  to  begin  realising 
itself.  Great  change  in  the  younger  parties  :  two  female  infants 
become  rather  interesting  young  ladies  ;  John,  whom  I  remem¬ 
bered  in  bib  and  tucker,  shot  up  to  six  feet  and  more,  a  talking, 
prompt,  rather  promising  young  man,  intended  for  the  factor  line. 
I  could  not  but  reflect,  as  I  have  done  more  than  once  of  late,  how 
small  a  proportion  of  mere  intellect  will  serve  a  man’s  turn  if  all 
the  rest  be  right.  John  Church,  as  I  said,  promises  well ;  James, 
of  Calcutta,  is  doing  admirably  wTell ;  and  their  heads  are  both  of 
the  smallest.  Church  was  full  of  Herculaneum,  and  will  ques¬ 
tion  you  strictly  when  he  gets  you.  Poor  Donaldson,  the  school¬ 
master,  my  old  comrade  in  Kirkcaldy,  has  had  to  put  away  his 
wife  for  the  sin  of  drunkenness,  and  was  a  saddish  kind  of  sight 
to  me.  I  called  on  old  Gordon ;  terrified  him  much,  but  found 
him  a  very  worthy  and  sensible  man.  Finally,  on  Thursday  morn¬ 
ing  I  departed  for  Girthon,  and  by  rough  ways  and  over  deep  rivers 
reached  home  that  evening  about  six.  Galloway  was  beautiful,  all 
green  and  orange  under  the  clear  mellow  sky.  I  had  glanced  into 
a  peopled  country,  seen  old  friends,  and  not  wholly  wasted  my  time. 


Accounts  of  Friends. 


245 


From  Annandale  I  hear  good  news  and  nothing  else  three  days 
ago.  They  are  all  well;  our  mother  rather  better  than  usual. 
Jamie  had  begun  his  harvest ;  the  crops  excellent,  the  weather 
rather  damp. 

Alick  gets  the  ‘  Courier  ’  newspaper  from  us  weekly ;  our  mother 
the  ‘  Examiner,’  of  which  she  is  exceedingly  fond.  In  respect  of 
this  latter  your  punctuality  is  now  and  then  desiderated ;  Tom 
Holcroft,  who  sends  it  to  us,  misses  about  one  in  the  month,  and 
I  suppose  cannot  help  it.  I  have  just  written  to  Mill,  inquiring 
whether  he  can  form  no  other  arrangement  for  us.  Holcroft  lias 
never  mitten,  and  I  hear  not  a  word  about  him  or  Badams  or  any 
one  von  diesem  Geschlechte.  Neither  has  the  ‘noble  lady’  ever 
written,  though  she  was  written  to  months  ago.  Perhaps  I  should 
rather  honour  her  for  this  omission  or  forbearance  ;  Jane  and  I 
had  evidently  become  hateful  to  all  that  diabolic  household,  and 
on  our  side  quite  satisfied,  not  to  say  sated,  of  it.  Nevertheless 
the  noble  lady,  quick  as  a  lynx  to  see  this,  stood  by  us  faithfully 
and  acted  with  friendliest  regard  and  very  reverence  to  the  very 
last.  Now  perhaps  she  thinks  such  effort  superfluous,  and  so  do 
we.  Her  feeling,  we  know,  is  kindly,  and  can  be  translated  into 
no  action  of  importance.  Poor  old  Montagu  seemed  wearied  out 
and  failing.  Badams  used  to  say  he  would  not  last  long.  Proc¬ 
ter  is  an  innocent  kind  of  body,  but  not  undeserving  the  name  our 
little  lady  here  used  to  give  him,  ‘that  dud.’  A  more  entire  dud 
it  would  perhaps  be  difficult  to  find  in  the  poetical  or  periodical 
world.  Mrs.  P.  is  honest,  keen,  and  shallow.  God  mend  them 
and  us  !  we  can  do  them  ‘  neither  ill  na’  good.’ 

My  British  news  are  now  nearly  written.  I  need  not  trouble 
you  with  Reform  Bill  rejoicings — and  then,  alas !  with  the  elec¬ 
tioneerings.  It  is  here  that  the  Reform  Bill  comes  to  the  test. 
Set  the  angel  Gabriel  to  elect  a  Parliament :  how  shall  he  succeed 
when  there  is  none  to  elect  ?  However,  a  new  generation  will  rise 
— and  then.  The  ‘  Advocate  ’  I  find  is  at  Edinburgh  canvassing, 
and  will  succeed  though  the  whole  country  (that  had  much  hope 
in  him)  have  been  disappointed.  They  say  he  will  be  made  a 
judge  when  any  vacancy  occurs  and  will  be  set  free  of  politics. 
It  were  a  happy  change. 

Of  Edw7ard  Irving  I  hear  nothing  except  through  the  news¬ 
papers.  Last  week  it  was  said  they  had  taken  a  large  house  (now 
used  as  an  exhibition  establishment)  in  Newman  Street,  Oxford 
Street,  and  were  to  put  a  gallery  in  it,  and  were  to  preach  and 


* 


246 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


shriek  there.  Ho  has  published  three  papers  in  ‘  Fraser  ’  on  his 
Tongues.  I  read  the  last  yesternight,  and  really  wondered  over 
it.  He  says  he  cannot  believe  that  God  whom  they  had  so  prayed 
to,  <fco.,  would  cheat  them.  Neither  can  I.  Oh,  my  poor  friend 
Irving,  to  what  base  uses  may  we  come ! 

But  you  have  enough  of  this.  I  must  now  turn  for  a  moment 
to  Naples. 

We  have  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  the  accounts  you 
send  us.  All  seems  moving  as  it  ought,  or  nearly  so.  If  you  be 
squared  to  come  back  to  us,  you  will  have  means  of  settling  your¬ 
self  where  you  see  fittest ;  above  all,  you  will  have  inward  means. 
We  shall  find  you,  I  can  well  perceive,  a  new  man  in  many  things. 
All  right;  only  do  not  turn  yourself  inwards.  Man  may  doubt  as 
he  will,  but  the  great  fact  remains:  He  is  here,  and  ‘not  to  ask 
questions,  but  to  do  work.’  Kein  Qruheln  !  N'ecoute  toi !  Cor  ne 
edito  !  Do  not  come  back  from  Italy  as  if  you  had  been  living  in 
a  well ;  speak  with  all  peojrle ;  no  mortal  but  has  something  to 
tell  could  you  once  get  him  to  speak  truth.  Continue  to  mind 
your  duties ;  to  write  in  your  journal ;  to  see  and  to  do  with  ut¬ 
most  possible  freedom.  I  write  these  things  in  the  shape  of  pre- 
4‘  cept,  but  I  know  they  might  as  well  be  put  down  like  commenda¬ 
tions  and  encouragements,  for  you  already  practise  and  in  great 
part  accomplish  them.  Do  it  more  and  more.  I  am  glad  you 
like  Naples,  and  find  it  strange  and  notable.  Had  I  the  Oriental 
wishing  carpet  I  were  soon  beside  you  noting  it  too.  Gell  has 
proved  a  little  worse  than  I  expected — not  much  worse.  Do  you 
speak  Italian  perfectly  ?  As  for  the  English — once  knowing  them 
to  be  nonentities,  you  do  right  to  heed  them  no  more ;  their 
whole  secret  is  alreadv  understood.  Not  so  with  Italians.  Even 
nonentities  and  simulacra  (who,  as  Fichte  said,  gar  nicht  existiren) 
of  the  human  sort  are  worth  studying  till  you  see  how  they  are 
painted  and  made  up.  But  in  any  case  you  are  not  without  society. 
Your  own  Countess  can  tell  you  innumerable  things.  You  see 
there  what  multitudes  are  so  anxious  to  see — an  epitome  of.  Eng¬ 
lish  fashionable  life  ;  and  both,  for  theory  and  practice  can  learn 
much  from  it.  Tell  me  more  about  the  inside  of  your  household 
—what  you  talk  of,  what  you  read,  what  you  do.  Describe  all 
your  ‘  household  epochs  ’  till  I  can  figure  them.  Did  you  ever  see 
Thorvaldsen  at  Borne  ?  Have  you  met  any  Italian  of  a  literary 
cast  ?  any  of  a  thinking  character,  literary  or  not  ?  Is  there  any 
‘  Count  Menso  ’  now  in  Naples  (Milton’s  friend  and  Tasso’s)  ?  Is 


4 


Advice  by  Carlyle. 


247 


tlie  blood  of  St.  January  now  in  existence  ?  Did  you  see  it  there  ? 
Where  does  Carlo  Botta  live,  the  historian  ?  What  of  Manzoni  ? 
Or  are  all  these  Lombards  and  unknown  in  your  country  ?  I 
could  ask  questions  without  end.  Finally,  dear  Jack,  be  of  good 
heart,  for  better  things  are  in  store  for  thee.  There  is  a  task  for 
every  mortal  in  this  world  of  the  Almighty’s  ;  for  thee  there  is  one 
greater  than  for  most.  Let  us  stand  to  our  work  full  of  ‘  desper¬ 
ate  hope.’  There  is  on  the  whole  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  ‘  He 
that  has  looked  death  in  the  face  will  start  at  no  shadows.’  Come 
home  to  us  when  the  time  arrives — to  us  that  love  you.  Many 
hearts  will  give  you  welcome,  and  rejoice  to  see  you  in  the  way  of 
well-doing.  Our  dear  mother  you  must  consider,  much  against 
her  will,  wishing  and  meaning  to  say  many  things  but  unable. 
So  for  the  rest  you  know  the  affection  of  them  all.  Jane  will  not 
send  compliments — scarcely  even  kind  regards.  ‘  She  meant  to 
write  the  whole  letter  herself,  but  did  not  know  there  was  such  a 
hurry,  and  now  I  have  done  it.’  Patience  !  there  is  a  good  time 
coming.  The  good  wiffe  is  clearly  very  much  improved  in  health 
(though  troubled  with  a  little  cold  for  the  last  week)  ;  and  im¬ 
putes  her  cure  to  no  medicine  so  much  as  to  an  invaluable  three-* 
fold  (trefoil)  which  grows  in  the  bogs  here,  and  makes  most  excel¬ 
lent  bitter  infusion.  Our  old  mother  also  is  to  have  some  of  it. 
I,  too,  have  tried  it,  and  find  it  a  praiseworthy  pharmacy. 

Adieu.  T.  C. 

P.S. — Cholera  is  spreading  ;  is  at  Carlisle,  at  Ayr,  at  Glasgow  ; 
has  hardly  yet  been  in  our  county — at  least,  only  as  imported. 
It  is  all  over  Cumberland.  ‘Four  carriers,  one  of  them  from 
Thornhill,  breakfasted  together  at  Glasgow,  and  all  died  on  the 
way  home.’  The  Thornhill  one  did,  we  know.  It  has  gone  back 
to  Sunderland  and  Newcastle.  Medical  men  can  do  nothing,  ex¬ 
cept  frighten  those  that  are  frightable.  The  mortality,  after  all, 
is  no  wise  so  quick  as  in  typhus  form ;  is  seen  every  year;  but  men 
are  natural  blockheads,  and  common  death  is  not  death. 


Extracts  from  Mote  Booh:. 

August  8. — I  cannot  understand  Morals.  Our  current  Moral 
Law  (even  that  of  philosophers)  affronts  me  with  all  manner  of 
perplexities.  Punishment  neither  is  nor  can  be  in  proportion  to 
fault ;  for  the  commonest  of  all  examples  take  the  case  of  an  err¬ 
ing  woman. 


248 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


And  then  how  strange  is  the  influence  of  what  we  call  honour  : 
when  our  fellow  men  are  once  come  to  be  asked  for  their  vote, 
how  strangely  do  they  alter  every  thing  !  Where  are  the  limits 
of  conscience  and  honour?  what  relation  (even  for  the  anti-gig- 
man)  do  the  two  mutually  bear  ?  Moral  force  and  moral  correct¬ 
ness — how  shall  the  litigation  be  settled  between  these  ?  Ought 
there  to  be  any  unpardonable  offence  ?  Ought  the  judge  in  any 
case  to  say  irrevocably,  Be  thou  outcast  (as  proud  fathers  have 
done  to  erring  daughters  for  instance)  ?  The  world  has  declared, 
Yes.  Neither  is  there  wanting  some  ground  for  it.  Necessity 
rules  our  existence  :  Man  should  step  in  and  be  as  stern  as  Neces¬ 
sity,  and  take  the  'word  out  of  its  mouth.  Perhaps  ;  yet  not  with 
clear  certainty.  This  is  ‘the  Place  of  Hope.’  Should  man’s 
mind  have  sudden  boundless  transitions  of  that  sort ;  have  xapo- 
rific  points,  and  freezing  points,  or  should  it  not?  Weiss  nicht.  It 
is  all  confused  to  me  :  seems  to  be  all  refounding  itself.  Happily 
the  practical  is  no  wise  dubious. 

Toleration,  too,  is  miserably  mistaken ;  means  for  most  part  only 
indifference  and  contempt :  Verachtung,  ja  Nichtachtung.  What  is 
bad  is  a  thing  to  be  the  sooner  the  better  abolished.  Whether  this 
imply  hatred  or  not  will  depend  on  circumstances.  Not  toleration, 
therefore,  but  the  quickest  possible  abolition  :  that  were  our  rule. 
A  wicked  hatred,  in  abolishing,  substitutes  new  badness  (as  bad  or 
worse).  The  pure,  praiseworthy ,  useful  Hatred  were  that  which 
abolished  and  did  not  substitute.1 

I  am  getting  very  weary  of  the  ‘  Nature  of  the  Time,’  ‘  Progress 

1  This  sentence  did  not  please  Carlyle  or  adequately  express  his  meaning. 
Suppose  we  put  it  in  this  way.  A  set  of  people  are  living  in  a  village  which 
threatens  to  fall  about  their  ears.  The  thatch  is  rotting,  the  foundations 
sinking,  the  walls  cracking.  Is  the  village  to  be  pulled  down,  and  are  the 
people  to  be  left  houseless  ?  The  shelter  is  bad;  but  still  it  is  some  shelter — • 
better  than  none — and  likely  to  serve  till  something  sounder  can  be  provided. 
If  it  be  doing  no  harm  otherwise,  this  would  be  clearly  the  rule.  But  suppose 
the  village  to  be  breeding  the  plague  by  generating  poisonous  vapours.  Then 
clearly  the  people  will  be  better  off  with  no  roof  over  them  but  the  sky.  Sub¬ 
stitute  for  the  village,  Paganism,  Romanism,  or  any  other  lingering  creed 
which  eager  persons  are  impatient  to  be  rid  of.  Is  Romanism  morally  poison¬ 
ous?  Knox  and  Cromwell  answered  clearly,  Yes;  and  with  good  reason,  and 
so  did  not  tolerate  it.  We,  with  or  without  good  reason,  have  found  it  no 
longer  poisonous,  and  so  do  tolerate.  Both  may  be  right.  In  our  toleration 
there  is  no  indifference  or  contempt.  In  the  intolerance  of  Cromwell  there 
was  a  hatred  of  the  intensest  kind — hatred  of  evil  in  its  concrete  form. 


Extracts  from  Journal. 


240 


of  the  Species,’  and  all  that  business.  The  Time  is  here ;  men 
should  use  it,  not  talk  about  it :  while  they  talk  and  lav  not  hold, 
it  is  gone  and  returns  not. 

Great  is  self-denial!  Practice  it  where  thou  needest  it.  Life 
goes  all  to  ravels  and  tatters  where  that  enters  not.  The  old 
monks  meant  very  wisely  :  hit  thou  the  just  medium. 

Thou  complainest  that  enjoyments  are  withheld  from  thee,  and 
thereby  (thou  caring  nothing  for  enjoyment  for  its  own  sake)  thy 
culture  and  experiences  are  in  many  ways  obstructed.  Be  consist¬ 
ent:  cultivate  thyself  in  the  want  of  enjoyment:  gather  cpiite 
peculiar  experiences  therein. 

August  11. — A  strange  force  of  what  I  call  ‘desperate  hope’  is 
gathering  in  me :  I  feel  a  kind  of  defiant  assurance  that  much 
shall  yet  be  well  with  me,  the  rather  as  I  care  little  whether  or  not. 

It  is  true  :  evil  must  always  continue :  yet  not  this  evil  and  that 
evil.  The  thing  convicted  of  falsehood  must  be  forthwith  cast  out : 
the  Radical  is  a  believer,  of  the  gross,  heathen  sort ;  yet  our  only 
believer  in  these  times. 

Politics  confuse  me — what  my  duties  are  therein?  As  yet  I 
have  stood  apart ,  and  till  quite  new  aspects  of  the  matter  turn  up, 
shall  continue  to  do  so.  The  battle  is  not  between  Tory  and 
Radical  (that  is  but  like  other  battles) ;  but  between  believer  and 
unbeliever. 

Am  inclined  to  consider  myself  a  most  sorry  knave ;  but  must 
cease  considering  and  begin  to  work,  whether  at - (?)  or  at  Dide¬ 

rot?  At  the  latter  in  any  case  to-day ;  and  herewith  enough. 

Oh  !  life  turmoil — to-day — to-morrow 
Unfathomed  thing  thou  wert  and  art : 

In  sight,  in  blindness,  joy  and  sorrow 
The  wondrous  Thomas  pla}Ts  his  part. 

Awhile  behold  him  flesh-clothed  spirit , 

He  reaps  and  sows  the  allotted  hours, 

Would  much  bequeath,  jdid  much  inherit, 

Oh  !  help  the  helpless,  heavenly  powers. 

Seneca  was  born  to  be  of  the  Church  of  England.  He  is  the 
father  of  all  that  work  in  sentimentality,  and,  by  fine  speaking 
and  decent  behaviour,  studv  to  serve  God  and  Mammon,  to  stand 

ft) 


250 


Life  of'  Thomas  Carlyle. 


well  with  philosophy  and  not  ill  with  Nero.  His  force  had  mostly 
oozed  out  of  him,  or  ‘  corrupted  itself  into  benevolence,  virtue,  sen¬ 
sibility.’  Oh!  the  everlasting  clatter  about  virtue!  virtue!  In 
the  Devil’s  name  be  virtuous,  and  no  more  about  it !  Seneca 
could  have  been  a  Bishop  Heber ;  Dr.  Channing,  too,  and  that 
set,  have  some  kindred  with  him.  He  was,  and  they  are,  better 
than  nothing,  very  greatly  better.  Sey  gerade ,  sey  vertraglich. 

September  3. — Beautiful  autumn  days  !  I  am  reading  Diderot, 

with  intent  to  write  on  him  ;  not  at  all  in  a  very  wholesome  state 

■  */ 

of  mind  or  body,  but  must  put  up  with  it,  the  thing  needs  to  be 

done. 

I  thank  Heaven  I  have  still  a  boundless  appetite  for  reading.  I 
have  thoughts  of  lying  buried  alive  here  for  many  years,  forgetting 
ail  stuff  about  ‘reputation,’  success,  and  so  forth,  and  resolutely 
setting  myself  to  gain  insight,  by  the  only  method  not  shut  out 
from  me — that  of  books.  Two  articles  (of  fifty  pages)  in  the  year 
will  keep  me  living ;  employment  in  that  kind  is  open  enough. 
For  the  rest,  I  really  find  almost  that  I  do  best  when  forgotten  of 
men,  and  nothing  above  or  around  me  but  the  imperishable 
Heaven.  It  never  wholly  seems  to  me  that  I  am  to  die  in  this 
wilderness  :  a  feeling  is  always  dimly  with  me  that  I  am  to  be 
called  out  of  it,  and  have  work  fit  for  me  before  I  depart,  the 
rather  as  I  can  do  either  way.  Let  not  solitude,  let  not  silence  and 
unparticipating  isolation  make  a  savage  of  thee — these,  too,  have 
their  advantages. 

On  Saturday  (September  15),  being  summoned  to  Dumfries  as 
a  juryman,  and  my  whole  duty  consisting  in  answering  ‘Here’ 
when  my  name  was  called,  I  ran  out  to  the  Bank,  got  my  draft 
from  Cochrane  (for  ‘  Goethe  ’)  converted  into  cash,  added  to  it 
what  otherwise  I  had,  and  paid  the  Lord  Advocate  103/.  10s.,  my 
own  whole  debt,  and  John’s  (43/.  10s.,  which  had  been  already  sent 
me  for  that  end) ;  a  short,  grateful  letter  accompanied  the  banker’s 
cheque,  and  the  whole  would  reach  its  destination  at  latest  last 
Monday  morning.  I  now  once  more  owe  no  man  any  money,  have 
hi.  in  my  possession  still,  and^a  matter  of  50/.  or  60/.  due  to  me. 
Be  thankful ! 

I  must  to  Edinburgh  in  winter ;  the  solitude  here,  generally 
very  irksome,  is  threatening  to  get  injurious,  to  get  intolerable. 
"Work,  work  !  and  gather  a  few  pounds  to  take  thee. 


Extracts  f  rom  Journal. 


251 


Opinions  of  the  article,  ‘  Goethe,’  Cochrane  writes,  are  all  ‘  em¬ 
inently  unfavourable.’  The  ‘  eminently  ’  he  has  inserted  on  second 
thoughts  by  means  of  a  caret.  He  is  a  wondrous  man  to  see  edit¬ 
ing,  that  Cochrane ;  what  one  might  call  an  Editing  Pig,  as  there 
are  learned  pigs,  &c.  He  is  very  punctual  in  paying,  and  indeed 
generally ;  that  is  his  only  merit.  Use  him  sharply,  almost  con¬ 
temptuously,  and  he  remains  civil,  and  does  better  than  most. 
Bibliopoly,  bibliopoesy,  in  all  their  branches,  are  sick,  sick,  has¬ 
tening  to  death  and  new  genesis.  Enough  !  A  ch  gar  zu  riel. 

Great  meaning  that  lies  in  irrevocability ,  as  in  ‘  eternal  creeds,’ 
‘eternal  forms  of  government,’  also  in  final  irreversible  engage¬ 
ments  we  make  (marriage,  for  one).  Worth  considering  this.  The 
proper  element  of  belief,  and  therefore  of  concentrated  action.  On 
a  thing  that  were  seen  to  be  temporary  (finite  and  not  infinite), 
who  is  there  that  would  spend  and  be  spent  ? 

Sir  Walter  Scott  died  nine  days  ago.  Goethe  at  the  spring 
equinox,  Scott  at  the  autumn  one.  A  gifted  spirit  then  is  wanting 
from  among  men.  Perhaps  he  died  in  good  time,  so  far  as  his 
own  reputation  is  concerned.  He  understood  what  history  meant ; 
this  was  his  chief  intellectual  merit.  As  a  thinker,  not  feeble — 
strong,  rather,  and  healthy,  yet  limited,  almost  mean  and  klein- 
stddtisch.  I  never  spoke  with  Scott  (had  once  some  small  episto¬ 
lary  intercourse  with  him  on  the  part  of  Goethe,  in  which  he  be¬ 
haved  not  very  courteously,  I  thought),  have  a  hundred  times  seen 
him,  from  of  old,  writing  in  the  Courts,  or  hobbling  with  stout 
sj>eed  along  the  streets  of  Edinburgh ;  a  large  man,  pale,  shaggy 
face,  fine,  deep-browed  grey  eyes,  an  expression  of  strong  homely 
intelligence,  of  humour  and  good  humour,  and,  perhaps  (in  later 
years  among  the  wrinkles),  of  sadness  or  weariness.  A  solid,  well- 
built,  effectual  mind ;  the  merits  of  which,  after  all  this  delirious 
exaggeration  is  done,  and  the  reaction  thereof  is  also  done,  will 
not  be  forgotten.  He  has  played  his  part,  and  left  none  like  or 
second  to  him.  Plaudite  ! 

In  the  middle  of  October,  the  Diderot  article  being  fin¬ 
ished,  the  Carlyles  made  an  expedition  into  Annandale. 
They,  stayed  for  a  day  or  two  at  Templand.  Carlyle, 

‘  having  nothing  better  to  do,’  rode  over,  with  Dr.  Has¬ 
sell,  of  Thornhill,  to  Morton  Castle,  ‘  a  respectable  old 
rain,  which  looked  sternly  expressive,  striking  enough,  in 


252 


life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

the  pale  October  evening.’  The  castle  had  belonged  to 
the  Randolphs,  and  had  been  uninhabited  for  two  cen¬ 
turies.  The  court  was  then  a  cattlefold.  In  the  distance 
they  saw  the  remains  of  the  old  Church  of  Kilbride,  where 
Dr.  Russell  told  Carlyle,  1  there  still  lay  open  and  loose  on 
the  wall  a  circular  piece  of  iron  framing,  once  used  for 
supporting  the  baptismal  ewer,  and  protected  for  350  years 
by  a  superstitious  feeling  alone.’  Leaving  Templand,  they 
drove  round  by  Loch  Ettrick,  Kirkmichael,  and  Lockerby, 
stopping  to  visit  Alex.  Carlyle  in  liis  new  farm,  and  thence 
to  Scotsbrig.  Here  the  inscription  was  to  be  fixed  on  old 
Mr.  Carlyle’s  grave  in  Ecclefechan  churchyard.  It  was 
the  last  light  of  dusk  when  they  arrived  at  the  spot  where 
Carlyle  himself  is  now  lying.  ‘  Gloomy  empire  of  Time  !  ’ 
he  wrote,  after  looking  at  it.  Alow  all  had  changed, 
changed ;  nothing  stpod  .still,  but  some  old  tombs  with 
their  cross-stones,  which  I  remembered  from  boyhood. 
Their  strange  suss-sckauerliche  effect  on  me  !  Our  house 
where  we  had  all  lived  was  within  stone  cast ;  but  this, 
too,  knew  us  no  more  again  at  all  for  ever.’ 

After  ten  days  they  returned  to  Craigenputtock,  bring¬ 
ing  e  sister  Jane  ’  with  them,  who  was  followed  afterwards 
by  the  mother.  The  winter  they  meditated  spending  in 
Edinburgh.  The  following  pleasant  letter  to  John  Carlyle 
was  written  a  day  or  two  before  they  started  on  this  tour. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Home. 

Craigenputtock :  October  17,  1832. 

I  finished  my  ‘composition’  the  day  before  yesterday.  Am 
bound  for  Annandale  in  the  end  of  the  week  ;  and  so  here  we  are. 
I  will  not  seal  this  till  I  have  seen  our  mother,  for  I  have  heard 
nothing  of  them  in  a  positive  shape  for  many  weeks.- 

There  is  little  or  nothing  to  be  written  of  transactions,  when 
the  change  of  weather  and  of  nervous  sensibility  are  almost  our 
only  events.  You  can  picture  out  Puttock,  and  how  I  sit  here  (in 
the  library),  with  a  blazing  fire  of  peats  and  coals,  careless  of  the 


253 


Autumn  Life  at  Craig  enputtock. 

damp,  surly  elements,  having  clulness  only  to  struggle  with.  We 
keep  a  Famulus  to  go  errands,  yoke  the  gig,  curry  the  cattle,  and 
so  forth  ;  who  proves  very  useful  to  us.  Jane  is  sitting  in  the  din¬ 
ing-room  ;  reads,  sews,  rules  her  household,  where  cow,  hens,  hu¬ 
man  menials,  garden  crop,  all  things  animate  and  inanimate,  need 
looking  to.  She  is  not  quite  so  brisk  as  she  was,  and  the  trefoil 1 
has  long  been  discontinued.  However,  she  is  certainly  far  bet¬ 
ter  than  while  in  London,  and,  on  the  whole,  continuing  to 
gather  strength.  The  grey  mare  about  six  weeks  ago  kicked  her 
harness  to  pieces  with  us,  down  at  John  McKnight’s,  without  the 
slightest  provocation,  but  did  us  no  damage ;  I  even  brought  the 
dame  home  on  her  back.  However,  such  conduct  was  not  to  be 
dreamt  of ;  so  we  despatched  the  animal  to  Alick,  to  make  ready 
for  the  ‘  rood  fair,’  who,  as  we  since  vaguely  learn  (for  they  have 
not  even  informed  us  of  this),  has  sold  her  to  Jamie,  that  he,  in 
carts  and  plough-harness,  may  teach  her  ‘  another  road  to  the 
well.’  With  unexampled  dexterity,  having  procured  an  awl  and 
thread  from  Dumfries,  I  mended  the  old  harness  again  (indis- 
cernibly  to  the  naked  eye) ;  and  now  little  Harry  draws  us,  and 
makes  no  bones  of  the  njatter,  being  in'  good  heart  and  well  pro¬ 
vided  with  fodder,  both  long  and  short :  that  is  the  way  we  man¬ 
age.  All  is  tight  and  sufficient  round  us,  and  need  not  be  in  dis-.' 
order  :  we  want  for  nothing  in  the  way  of  earthly  proviant,  and 
have  many  reasons  to  be  content  and  diligent.  Recreation  we 
have  none ;  a  walk,  a  ride,  on  some  occasions  a  combined  drive 
for  health’s  sake  alone.  Miss  Whigham  (of  Allanton)  called  here 
the  other  day,  and  this  is  simply  our  only  call  since  we  came  from 
London  !  Poor  William  Carson,2  indeed,  bounces  up  about  once 
in  the  month  to  tea ;  but  he  is  nigh  distracted  and  one  cannot 
count  on  him.  I  tried  the  schoolmaster,  but  he  is  a  poor  raw- 
boned  Grampus,  whom  I  lent  a  book  to,  but  could  get  no  more 
good  of.  I  have  tried  some  of  the  peasants,  but  them  also  with¬ 
out  fruit.  In  short,  mortal  communion  is  not  to  be  had  for  us 
here.  What,  the n^ but  do  without  it?  Peter  Austin  (of  Carsta- 
mon — Castra  Montium — we,  too,  have  had  our  Romans)  is  very 
useful  to  us ;  a  decent,  punctual  man,  the  shrewdest  of  these 
parts.  On  the  whole,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever  get  anything 
better  than  a  cheap  and  very  peculiar  lodging  here  ;  no  home,  I 

1  The  supposed  tonic  made  of  the  sorrel  which  grew  freely  in  the  Craigen- 
puttock  woods. 

2  A  young  neighbour. 


254 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


imagine,  lias  been  appointed.  For  whom  is  such  appointed  ?  The 
most  have  not  even  lodgings  except  by  sufferance.  The  Advocate 
acknowledges  his  debt  cleared ;  it  is  the  only  thing  we  have  heard 
of  him  for  a  great  while.  I  imagine  our  relationship  is  a  good 
deal  cooled,  and  may  now  be  visibly  to  him,  as  it  has  long  been 
visibly  to  me,  a  rather  fruitless  one.  His  world  is  not  our  world  : 
he  dwells  in  the  glitter  of  saloon  chandeliers,  walking  in  the 
‘  vain  show  ’  of  parliamenteering  and  gigmanity,  which  also  he 
feels,  to  be  vain ;  we,  in  the  whirlwind  and  wild  piping  battle  of 
fate,  which,  nevertheless,  by  God’s  grace,  we  feel  to  be  not  vain 
and  a  show,  but  true  and  a  reality.  Thus  may  each  without  dis¬ 
advantage  go  his  several  ways.  If  Jeffrey’s  well-being  ever  lay  in 
my  reach  how  gladly  would  I  increase  it !  But  I  hope  better 
things  for  him  ;  though  lie  is  evidently  declining  in  the  world’s 
grace,  and  knows  as  well  as  the  world  that  his  political  career  has 
proved  a  nonentity.  Often  have  I  lamented  to  think  that  so  ge¬ 
nial  a  nature  had  been  (by  the  Zeitgeist  wTho  works  such  misery) 
turned  into  that  frosty,  unfruitful  course.  But,  as  George  Rae 
said,  ‘  I) — n  you,  be  wae  for  yoursel’,’  so  there  we  leave  it.  On 
that  busy  day  I  got  the  proof  sheets  of  that  Fraser  concern,  The 
Tale  by  Goetlie,  which  is  his  leading  item  for  this  month,  but  has 
not  got  hither  yet.  It  is  not  a  bad  thing  ;  the  commentary  cost 
me  but  a  day,  and  does  well  enough.  The  produce  belongs  to  my 
little  dame  to  buy  pins  for  her  ;  she  got  it  as  present  long  ago  at 
the  Hill,  and  reckoned  it  unavailable.  Fraser  apjilied  for  a  paper 
on  ‘  Walter  Scott : 1  I  declined,  having  a  great  aversion  to  that 
obituary  kind  of  work — so  undertaker-like  ;  but  I  said  I  might 
perhaps  do  it,  afterwards.  This  thing  I  have  been  cobbling  to¬ 
gether  last  is  a  long  paper  on  ‘  Diderot,’  for  Cochrane.  I  had  an 
immense  reading,  to  little  purpose  otherwise,  and  am  very  glad  to 
have  it  all  behind  me.  And  now,  after  a  few  days’  sight  of  friends, 
I  must  back  hither  into  the  wold,  and  dig  a  little  more. 

We  are  not  for  Edinburgh  till  six  weeks  hence,  so  there  is  time 
to  do  something  previously.  I  shall  have  fun^s  enough  :  there  is 
this  thing ;  Najffer,  too,  owes  me  above  GO/.,  some  of  it  for  nine  or 
ten  months,  and  seems  to  be  shy  of  paying.  I  shall  see  better  what 
he  means  in  Edinburgh ;  his  ‘  Review,’  except  for  Macaulay  (who 
as  yet  has  only  sung  old  songs  of  Liberalism  and  the  like,  with  a 
new  windpipe)  is  the  utterest  £  dry  rubbish  shot  here;’  yet  by  a 
kind  of  fatality  it  may  linger  on  who  knows  how  long,  and  perhaps 
Naso  does  not  think  my  moisture  would  improve  it.  A  la  bonne 


Literature  and  Wages. 


255 


heure !  There  are  plenty  of  able  editors  zealous  enough  to  em¬ 
ploy  me  ;  this  is  all  the  fame  ( Fama  Diva  /)  I  fall  in  with,  or  need  ; 
so  that  when  you  come  home,  Doctor,  there  will  be  a  considerable 
volume  for  you  to  read,  and  I,  in  the  interim,  have  lived  thereby. 
I  do  not  mean  to  work  much  at  Edinburgh  for  a  while,  but  to  ask 
and  look  ;  that  makes  me  the  busier  at  present.  It  is  three  years 
I  have  been  absent,  and  several  things  will  be  changed. 

Your  offer,  dear  Jack,  is  kind,  brotherly,  suitable  ;  neither  shall 
you  be  forbid  to  pay  your  ‘  debts,’  and  much  more  (if  you  come  to 
have  the  means,  and  we  both  prove  worthy) ;  but  in  the  mean¬ 
while  it  were  madness  to  reap  corn  not  yet  in  the  ear  (or  kill  the 
goose  for  her  golden  eggs,  if  you  like  that  figure  better) ;  your 
great  outlook  at  present  is  to  get  yourself  set  up  in  medical  prac¬ 
tice,  for  which  end  all  the  money  you  can  possibly  save  will  be 
essential.  I  look  to  see  you  a  faithful  doctor,  real ,  not  an  imagi¬ 
nary  worker  in  that  fold  whereto  God’s  endowment  has  qualified 
and  appointed  you.  The  rest  I  say  honestly  is  within  the  merest 
trifle  of  indifferent  to  me.  How  long  (were  there  nothing  more  in 
it)  will  it  last  ?  Walter  Scott  is  now  poorer  than  I  am ;  has  left 
all  his  wages  behind.  If  he  spoke  the  truth  it  was  well  for  him  ; 
if  not,  not  well. 

Adieu,  dear  brother  ;  adieu 

T.  Carlyle. 

Jeffrey’s  relations  with  Carlyle  might  he  cooling.  To 
his  cousin  his  affection  was  as  warm  as  ever,  though  they 
seemed  to  enjoy  tormenting  each  other,  lie  had  been 
long  silent,  finding  a  correspondence  which  could  not  help 
Mrs.  Carlyle  exceedingly  painful.  lie  had  been  busy  get¬ 
ting  himself  returned  for  Edinburgh  ;  but  something  more 
than  this — impatience,  provocation,  and  conscious  inability 
to  do  any  good — had  stopped  his  pen.  How,  however,  he 
heard  that  the  O&rlyles  were  actually  coming  to  Edin¬ 
burgh,  and  the  news  brought  a  letter  from  him  of  warm 
anticipation. 

The  journey,  which  had  been  arranged  for  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  December,  wras  delayed  by  the  illness  of  Mrs.  Car¬ 
lyle’s  grandfather,  her  mother’s  father,  old  Mr.  Welsh  of 
Templand,  which  ended  in  death.  Mrs.  Carlyle  went 


256 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

down  to  assist  in  nursing  liim,  leaving  her  husband  alone 
with  his  mother  at  Craigenputtock,  himself  busy  in  charge 
of  the  household  economies,  which  his  mother,  either  out 
of  respect  for  her  daughter-in-law,  or  in  fear  of  her,  de¬ 
clined  to  meddle  with,  lie  had  to  congratulate  himself 
that  the  establishment  was  not  on  tire ;  nevertheless,  he 
wrote  that  his  ‘  coadjutor’s  return  would  bring  blessings 
with  it.’  The  illness,  however,  ended  fatally,  and  she 
could  not  come  back  to  him  till  it  was  over. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Rome. 

Craigenputtock :  December  2,  1 832. 

Mrs.  Welsh,  I  told  you  in  my  last  letter,  was  not  well ;  we  had 
driven  over  the  moors  out  of  Annandale,  and  seen  her  as  we  past, 
apparently  in  a  rather  better  state.  But  scarcely  had  sister  Jane 
after  a  week  got  conveyed  home  again,  and  our  mother  got  up 
hither,  on  pressing  invitation,  to  see  us,  when  a  letter  came  from 
Templand  with  intelligence  that  poor  old  grandfather  was  much 
worse,  and  Mrs.  Welsh,  throwing  by  all  her  own  ailments,  had 
started  up  to  watch  over  him ;  whereupon  my  J ane  thought  it 
right  to  set  off  without  delay,  and  so  left  my  mother  and  me  by 
ourselves  here.  It  is  needless  to  fill  your  sheet  with  long  ac¬ 
counts  of  comings  and  goings,  of  agitations,  sorrowings,  and  con¬ 
fusions  ;  enough  to  inform  you  that  the  old  man  now  lies  no  more 
on  a  sick  bed,  but  in  his  •  last  home  beside  his  loved  ones  in  the 
churchyard  of  Crawford,  where  we  laid  him  on  Friday  gone  a 
week.  He  had  the  gentlest  death,  and  had  numbered  fourscore 
years.  Fond  remembrances,  and  a  mild  long-anticipated  sorrow 
attended  him.  Man  issues  from  eternity  ;  walks  in  a  ‘  Time  Ele¬ 
ment  ’  encompassed  by  eternity,  and  again  in  eternity  disappears. 
Fearful  and  wonderful !  This  only  we  know,%that  God  is  above  it, 
that  God  made  it,  and  rules  it  for  good.  What  change  of  life  this 
may  produce  for  Mrs.  Welsh  we  have  not  understood  yet.  Most 
probably  she  will  retain  the  home  at  Templand,  and  give  U])  the 
ground  and  farming  establishment.  Such  at  least  were  her  wisest 
plan.  But  Jane  and  I  hastened  off  on  the  Saturday  to  relieve  my 
mother,  who  was  watching  here  in  total  loneliness,  agitated  too 
with  change  of  servants  and  so  forth. 

For  the  rest  receive  thankfully  the  assurance  that  all  continues 


Courage!  Courage! 


257 


well.  The  cholera,  of  which  I  wrote  to  you,1  is  gone,  taking  about 
500  souls  with  it,  which  from  a  population  of  13,000,  was,  in  the 
space  of  some  four  weeks,  rather  an  alarming  proportion.  The  ter¬ 
ror  of  the  adjacent  people,  which  was  excessive  and  indeed  dis¬ 
graceful,  has  hardly  yet  subsided.  Happily  the  pest  does  not 
spread  ;  a  few  cases  occurred  in  the  Galloway  villages,  elsewhere 
none,  or  hardly  any,  and  so  it  went  its  way  as  mysteriously  as  it 
had  come.  Nobody  connected  much  with  us  has  been  taken,  many 
as  were  exposed.  Death,  however,  in  other  shapes,  is  as  of  old 
busy.  James  Thomson  of  Cleughside  is  gone  lately.  .  .  .  Old 
Wull  Nay  is  dead  ;  his  poor  old  wife  (they  say)  bitterly  lamented, 
and  ‘  hung  by  the  hearse,’  which,  however,  could  not  stay.  ...  A 
son  of  Davie  Corrie,  married  about  a  year  ago,  is  also  dead.  What 
is  this  whole  earth  but  a  kind  of  Golgotha,  a  scene  of  Death-Life, 
where  inexorable  Time  is  producing  all  and  devouring  all  ?  Hap¬ 
pily  there  is  a  Heaven  round  it ;  otherwise  for  me  it  were  not  in¬ 
habitable.  Courage  !  courage ! 

tins  zu  verewigen  sind  wir  ja  da. 

On  Wednesday  I  got  your  letter  at  Dumfries ;  called  also  at  the 
bank,  and  found  135/.  ready,  for  which  I  took  a  bank  receipt  that 
shall  be  ready  for  you  on  your  home-coming.  I  do  not  need  the 
money  at  present,  and  you  will  need  it ;  therefore,  much  as  I  re¬ 
joice  in  the  spirit  you  display,  let  it  dabey  bleiben  till  we  see  how 
times  turn.  You  may  by  possibility  become  a  moneyed  man  ;  I 
never.  The  relation  between  us  in  any  case  is  already  settled. 

Alick  is  grown  more  collected,  has  lost  none,  of  his  energy,  nor 
on  occasion  his  biting  satire,  which  however  his  wife  is  happily 
too  thick-skinned  to  feel.  They  will  struggle  on  I  think,  and  not 
be  defeated.  Jamie  too  goes  along  satisfactorily,  a  shrewd  sort  of 
fellow  with  much  gaiety,  who  sometimes  in  his  laughter-loving 
moods  reminds  me  slightly  of  you.  No  twTo  of#the  house  have  such 
a  heart-relish  for  the  ludicrous,  though  we  all  like  it.  Our  good 
mother  is  in  tolerable  health  and  heart.  She  improved  much  with 
us  here  the  first  two  weeks,  but  fell  off  again  for  want  of  exercise 
and  excitement.  She  read  here  about  the  persecutions  of  the 
Scotch  Church,  and  in  some  of  Knox’s  writings  I  had  ;  not  even 
disdaining  ‘  Fraser’s  Magazine,’  or  the  Reviews.  She  is  still  very 
zealous,  and  predicts  black  times  (with  us)  for  the  world.  It  seemed 

1  As  being  at  Dumfries. 

Von.  31.— 17 


258 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


to  her  that  Lady  Clare  would  be  much  amazed  with  your  descrip¬ 
tions  of  Scotch  life,  and  might  learn  much  from  it.  From  Al- 
mack’s  to  Ecclefechan  is  a  wide  interval,  yet  strange  things  come 
together.  Strictly  speaking  the  wretched  Ecclefechan  existence 
is  the  more  tolerable  of  the  two,  for  in  it  there  is  a  pre-ordination 
of  Destiny,  and  something  done,  namely  muslin  woven,  and  savage 
bipeds  boarded  and  bedded.  Alas !  the  hand  of  the  Devil  lies 
heavy  on  all  men.  But  days  quite  saturated  with  Antigigmanism 
are  surely  coming,  and  from  these  better  will  arise.  The  com- 
pletest,  profoundest  of  all  past  and  present  Antigigmen  was  Jesus 
Christ.  Let  us  think  of  this,  for  much  follows  from  it.  Better 
times  are  coming,  surely  coming.  Cast  tliou  thy  bread  on  the  wild, 
agitated  waters,  thou  wilt  find  it  after  many  days.  That  is  enough. 

At  Edinburgh  I  expect  books,  some  conversation  with  reason¬ 
able,  earnest,  or  even  with  unreasonable,  baseless  men ;  on  the 
whole  some  guidance,  economical  if  not  spiritual.  Sir  William 
Hamilton  is  one  I  hope  to  get  a  little  good  of ;  of  others,  too, 
whom  hitherto  I  have  not  personally  known.  Of  my  own  accept¬ 
ance  with  all  manner  of  persons  I  have  reason  to  speak  with  thank¬ 
fulness,  indeed  with  astonishment.  It  is  little  man  can  do  for 
man,  but  of  that  little  I  am  no  wise  destitute.  In  am  case  wTe  will 
live  in  our  own  hired  house,  on  our  own  earned  money,  and  see 
what  the  world  can  show  us.  I  get  more  earnest,  graver,  not  un- 
happier,  every  day.  The  whole  Creation  seems  more  and  more 
Divine  to  me,  the  Natural  more  and  more  Supernatural.  Out  of 
Goethe,  who  is  my  near  neighbour,  so  to  speak,  there  is  no  writ¬ 
ing  that  speaks  to  me  [mir  anspricht)  like  the  Hebrew  Scriptures, 
though  they  lie  far  remote.  Earnestness  of  soul  was  never  shown 
as  there.  Trust  is  das  Leben  ;  and  even  to  the  last,  soul  resembles 
soul.  Here,  however,  speaking  of  Goethe,  I  must  tell  you  that 
last  week,  as  our  mother  and  I  were  passing  Sandywell,  a  little 
parcel  was  handed  in  which  proved  to  be  from  Eckermann,  at 
Weimar.  It  made  jne  glad  and  sad.  There  was  a  medal  in  it, 
struck  since  the  poet’s  death.  Ottilie  had  sent  it  me.  Then  a 
gilt  cream-coloured  essay  on  Goethe’s  Practische  Wirksamkeii  by 
one  F.  von  Muller,  a  Weimar  Kunstfreund  and  intimate  of  de¬ 
ceased’s,  with  an  inscription  on  it  by  him.  Finally  the  third  Heft 
of  the  sixth  volume  of  ‘  Kunst  und  Alterthum,’  which  had  partly 
been  in  preparation,  and  now  posthumously  produced  itself ;  to 
me  a  touching  kind  of  sight.  Eckermann  wrote  a  very  kind  let¬ 
ter,  explaining  how  busy  he  was  with  reducting  the  fifteenth  vol- 


Last  Present  from  Weimar.  259 

ume  of  Nachgelassenen  Schriften,  the  titles  of  all  which  he  gave  me. 
There  is  a  volume  of  ‘  Diclitung  unci  Wahrheid,’  and  the  comple¬ 
tion  of  ‘  Faust.’  These  are  the  most  remarkable.  I  have  read 
Muller’s  essay,  which  is  sensible  enough — several  good  things  also 
are  in  the  Heft ,  towards  the  last  page  of  which  I  came  upon  these 
words  (by  Muller,  speaking  of  Goethe)  :  ‘  Among  the  younger 
British,  Bulwer  and  Carlyle  very  especially  attract  him.  The 
beautiful  pure  disposition  of  the  last,  with  his  calm,  delicate  per¬ 
ceptiveness,  raises  Goethe’s  recognition  of  him  to  the  warmest  re¬ 
gard  :  1  ’  This  of  Uebevollste  Zuneigung  was  extremely  precious  to 
me.  Alas  !  und  das  Alles  ist  kin .  Ottilie  promises  to  write,  but  I 
think  not. 

And  now,  dear  Jack,  before  closing  let  us  cast  a  glance  towards 
Borne.  Your  two  last  letters  are  very  descriptive  of  your  house¬ 
hold  ways,  and  give  us  all  much  satisfaction.  We  can  figure  you 
far  better  than  before.  Continue  to  send  the  like.  I  wish  you 
were  well  settled  for  the  winter.  There  seems  nothing  else  to  be 
wished  at  present.  I  can  understand  your  relation  to  your  patient 
to  be  a  delicate  one ;  but  you  appear  to  have  good  insight  into  it, 
and  to  be  of  the  most  promising  temper.  ‘  Geradheit,  Urtheil  und 
Vertrdglichkeit.'’  I  miss  none  of  these  three  ;  they  make  in  all  cases 
a  noble  mixture.  Be  of  good  cheer,  in  omne  paratus,  you  will  re¬ 
turn  home  to  us  a  much  more  productive  kind  of  character  than 
you  were  ;  learned,  equipped  in  many  ways,  with  all  that  is  worthy 
in  your  character  developed  into  action,  or  much  nearer  develojj- 
ment.  Be  diligent  in  business,  fervent  in  spirit.  What  is  all  our 
life,  and  all  its  ill-success  or  good  success,  that  we  should  fear  it? 
An  eternity  is  already  around  us.  Time  (wherein  is  the  disease 
we  call  Life),  will  soon  be  done,  and  then  !  Let  us  have  an  eye  on 
that  city  that  hath  foundations. 

God  ever  bless  you,  dear  brother, 

T.  Carlyle. 

A  letter  follows  from  Mrs.  Austin  : — • 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Craig enputtoch. 

26  Park  Road,  London  :  December  25,  1832. 

Dearest  Friend, — Writing  to  you,  which  ought  from  all  natural 
causes  to  be  one  of  my  greatest  and  dearest  pleasures,  is  become 

1  1  Unter  den  jiingern  Britten  zielien  Bulwer  tmd  Carlyle  ihn  ganz  vorzuglich 
an,  und  das  schone  reine  Naturell  des  letztern,  seine  ruliige  zartsinnige  Auffas- 
sungsgabe  steigern Goethe’s  Anerkennung  bis  zur  liebevollsten  Zuneigung.’ 


260 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


a  sort  of  dread  and  pain  and  oppression.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  no 
means  of  saving  anything  because  I  have  so  much  to  say  ;  because 
I  would  fain  tell  you  how  I  love  you  and  your  husband  ;  how  I 
look  to  you  as  objects  that  would  console  and  refresh  and  elevate 
one  to  think  of ;  how  I  want  your  sympathy  and  approbation,  and 
sometimes  comfort ;  because  I  have  endless  facts  to  tell  and 
thoughts  to  communicate,  requisitions  to  ask— and  then — to  write 
thus  seems  mocking  myself  and  you.  A  quire  of  such  sheets  as 
these  would  not  hold  all  I  should  like  to  write.  But  my  business 
is  not  to  do  as  I  like  ;  and  you  and  he  will  not  think  the  worse  of 
me  for  my  self-denial.  You  may  have  seen  somewhere  or  other 
that  an  early  and  long  toil  of  mine  is  finished ;  a  selection  from 
the  Old  Testament.  If  I  knew  how  I  should  send  you  a  copy, 
just  that  you  might  see  that  I  work  !  Mr.  Carlyle  will  think  that 
worth  praise,  though  there  be  many  defects  in  the  hou\  Also  look, 
if  by  any  chance  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  comes  in  your  way, 
for  an  article  entitled  ‘  On  the  recent  attempts  to  revolutionise 
Germany.’  I  translated  from  a  journal  P.  Piicklers  sent  me,  with 
commendation.  Other  Germans  admire  it.  I  excite  horror  among 
my  Radical  friends  for  not  believing  that  all  salvation  comes  of 
certain  organic  forms  of  government;  and,  as  I  tell  Mrs.  Jeffrey, 
am  that  monster  made  up  ‘  of  all  we  Whigs  hate,’  a  Radical  and 
an  Absolutist. 

Meantime  Falk  goes  on.  Falk  eigentlich  has  long  been  done  ; 
but  matter  keeps  congregating  around  him.  Frau  von  Goetlie 
sent  me  by  Henry  Reeve,  ‘  Goethe  in  seiner  practisclien  Wirksam- 
keit,’  by  Yon  Muller,  Kanzler  of  Weimar.  Blie  sent  it  ‘with  her 
best  love,’  and  with  the  assurance  that  He  was  just  about  to  write 
to  me  when  he  died — that  one  of  the  last  things  he  read  was  my 
translation,  with  which  he  kindly  said  he  was  much  pleased.  You 
will  be  able  to  estimate  the  value  I  set  upon  this  faint  shadow  of 
a  communication  with  him. 

How  I  wish  Mr.  Carlyle  may  like — in  any  degree — what  I  have 
done.  And  then  you,  like  a  loyal  wife  as  you  are,  will  like  it 
too.  And  yet  it  is  nothing  but  compilation  and  translation — mere 
drudgery.  Well,  dearest  friend,  there  are  men  enough  and  women 
enough  to  dogmatise,  and  to  invent,  and  to  teach  and  preach  all 
things,  Political  Economy  included.  I  can  write  nothing,  and 
teach  nothing  ;  but  if  I  can  inteiqu’et  and  illustrate,  it  is  some¬ 
thing  ;  and  I  have  the  advantage  of  remaining,  what  a  remnant  of 
womanly  sux)erstition  about  me  makes  me  think  best  for  us — a 


Letter  from  Mrs.  Austin. 


261 


woman.  These  are  ‘  auld  world  notions.’  Yon  know  that  word  in 
my  vocabulary  excludes  no  particle  of  strength,  courage,  or  activ¬ 
ity.  But  a  well- chosen  field  is  the  thing.  What  say  you*? 

My  husband  is  tolerably ;  working  or  standing  against  the 
stream  of  washy  violence  which  inundates  us  all.  What  is  better, 
and  what  the  practical  many  dream  not  of,  he  is  ever  daily  and 
hourly  converting,  purifying,  elevating — himself ;  for  which  small 
business  your  reformers  of  crowds  have  little  time  and  less  taste. 

Lucy  grows  a  tall,  fair  girl.  At  least,  people  call  her  handsome. 
She  is,  at  any  rate,  intelligent  and  simple,  and  strong,  and  not  like 
the  children  of  the  ‘  upper  classes .’  Mrs.  Bulwer  told  me  that  her 
little  girl  of  four  said,  in  answer  to  some  question  about  her  little 
cousins,  ‘  I  suppose  they  have  seen  by  the  papers  that  I  go  to 
school.’  Here  is  ‘  diffusion  of  knowledge  ’  with  a  vengeance,  and 
matter  for  the  excellent  Carlyle  to  moralise  upon,  ‘  auf  seine  Art 
nnd  Weise.’  Would  I  were  there  to  hear.  Henry  Reeve  is  at 
Munich,  and  greatly  attached  to  Schelling,  who  is  quite  fatherly 
to  him. 

And  now  God  bless  you.  New  years  or  old  make  no  great  dif¬ 
ference  in  my  wishes  for  you,  which  will  outlast  a  year  and  I  trust 
a  world.  Write  to  me,  my  dear  friend,  and  believe  that  my  affec¬ 
tion  and  deep  esteem  are  not  the  feebler  for  my  want  of  time  to 
tell  of  them. 


Yours, 


S.  Austin. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


i 


A.  D.  1833.  2ET.  38. 

Extracts  from  Journal. 

Edinburgh ,  January  12,  1833. — Arrived  here  on  Monday  night 
last.  Nasty  fog  ;  ghastly  kind  of  light  and  silence  in  Dalveen 
Pass ;  the  wearisome,  dreaming-awake  kind  of  day  I  always  have 
in  state  coaches.  Mill’s  letter  awaiting  me  here.  Village-like 
impression  of  Edinburgh  after  London.  People  are  all  kind  ;  I 
languid,  bilious,  not  very  open  to  kindness.  Dr.  Irving  advises 
immediate  application  for  a  certain  Glasgow^  Astronomy  Professor¬ 
ship.  I  shall  hardly  trouble  myself  with  it.  Deejidy  impressed 
with  the  transiency  of  time  ;  more  and  more  careless  about  all  that 
time  can  give  or  take  away.  Could  undertake  to  teach  astronomy, 
as  soon  as  most  things,  by  way  of  honest  day-labour  :  not  other¬ 
wise,  for  I  have  no  zeal  now  that  way.  To  teach  any  of  the  things 
I  am  interested  in  were  for  the  present  impossible  ;  all  is  unfixed, 
nothing  has  yet  grown  ;  at  best,  is  but  growing.  Thus,  too,  the 
futility  of  founding  universities  at  this  time  :  the  only  university 
you  can  advantageously  found  were  a  public  library.  This  is  never 
out  of  season  ;  therefore  not  now,  whei^ll  else  in  that  kind  is. 

Have  long  been  almost  idle ;  have  long  been  out  of  free  com¬ 
munion  with  myself.  Must  suffer  more  before  I  can  begin  think¬ 
ing.  Will  try  to  write:  but  what?  but  when?  On  the  whole, 
what  a  wretched  thing  is  all  fame  !  A  renown  of  the  highest  sort 
endures,  say,  for  two  thousand  years.  And  then  ?  Why,  then,  a 
fathomless  eternity  swallows  it.  Work  for  eternity  :  not  the  mea¬ 
gre  rhetorical  eternity  of  the  periodical  critics,  but  for  the  real 
eternity,  wherein  dwelleth  the  Divine  !  Alas  !  all  here  is  so  dark. 
Keep  firm  in  thy  eye  what  light  tliou  hast. 

Daily  and  hourly  the  world  natural  grows  more  of  a  world  magi¬ 
cal  to  me  :  this  is  as  it  should  be.  Daily,  too,  I  see  that  there  is 
no  true  poetry  but  in  reality.  Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  poetkin  ? 
Schwerlich :  no  matter. 


Winter  in  Edinburgh. 


263 

> 

6  I  have  long  been  almost  idle.’  The  dark  mood  was 
hack  in  Carlyle,  and  these  words  explain  it.  When  idle  lie 
was  miserable  ;  when  miserable  he  made  all  about  him 
miserable.  At  such  times  he  was  6  gey  ill  to  live  wi’  5  in¬ 
deed. 

Sick  of  Craigenputtock,  sick  of  solitude,  sick  with 
thoughts  of  many  kinds  for  which  he  could  as  yet  find  no 
proper  utterance,  Carlyle  had  gone  to  Edinburgh  to  find 
books  and  hear  the  sound  of  human  voices.  Books  he 
found  in  the  Advocates’  Library,  books  in  plenty  upon 
every  subject ;  on  the  one  subject,  especially,  which  had 
now  hold  of  his  imagination.  The  French  Bevolution  had 
long  interested  him,  as  illustrating  signally  his  own  con¬ 
clusions  on  the  Divine  government  of  the  world.  Since 
he  had  written  upon  Diderot,  that  tremendous  convulsion 
had  risen  before  him  more  and  more  vividly  as  a  portent 
which  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  understand.  lie  had 
read  Thiers’  history  lately.1  Mill,  who  had  been  a  careful 
student  of  the  Bevolution,  furnished  him  with  memoirs, 
pamphlets,  and  newspapers.  But  these  only  increased  his 
thirst. 

In  the  Advocates’  Library  at  Edinburgh  he  was  able  to 
look  round  his  subject,  and  examine  it  before  and  after  ;  to 
look  especially  to  scattered  spiritual  and  personal  phe¬ 
nomena  ;  to  look  into  Mirabeau’s  life,  and  Danton’s,  and 
Madame  Boland’s :  among  side  pictures  to  observe  Cagl- 
iostro’s  history,  and  as  growing  out  of  it  the  melodrama 
of  £  The  Diamond  Becklace.’  All  this  Carlyle  devoured 
with  voracity,  and  the  winter  so  spent  in  Edinburgh  was 
of  immeasurable  moment  to  him.  Under  other  aspects 
the  place  was  unfortunately  less  agreeable  than  he  had 
expected  to  find  it.  In  his  choice  of  a  future  residence  lie 
had  been  hesitating  between  London  and  Edinburgh.  In 


1  Carlyle  once  gave  me  a  characteristic  criticism  of  Thiers.  It  was  brief. 
‘ Dig  where  you  will,’  he  said,  ‘you  come  to  water.’ 


264 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

his  choice  of  a  subject  on  which  to  write  he  had  been 
doubting  between  4  The  French  Revolution’  and  4  John 
Knox  and  the  Scotch  Reformation.’  On  both  these  points 
a  few  weeks’  experience  of  the  modern  Athens  decided 
him.  Edinburgh  society  was  not  to  his  mind.  lie  dis¬ 
cerned,  probably,  not  for  the  first  time  in  human  history, 
that  a  prophet  is  not  readily  acknowledged  in  his  own 
country.  Ko  circle  of  disciples  gathered  round  him  as 
they  had  done  in  Ampton  Street.  His  lodgings  proved 
inconvenient,  and  even  worse.  Keith er  he  nor  his  wife 
could  sleep  for  the  watchman  telling  the  hours  in  the 
street.  When  they  moved  into  a  back  room  they  were 
disturbed  by  noises  overhead.  A  woman,  it  appeared,  of 
the  worst  character,  was  nightly  entertaining  her  friends 
there.  They  could  do  with  little  money  in  Craigenput- 
tock ;  life  in  Edinburgh,  even  on  humble  terms,  was  ex¬ 
pensive.  Kapier  was  remiss  in  his  payments  for  the  arti¬ 
cles  in  the  4  Edinburgh  Review.’  He  was  generally  six 
months  in  arrear.  lie  paid  only  after  repeated  dunning, 
and  then  on  a  scale  of  growing  illiberality.  These,  how¬ 
ever,  were  minor  evils,  and  might  have  been  endured. 
They  had  gone  up  with  light  hearts,  in  evident  hope  that 
they  would  find  Edinburgh  an  agreeable  change  from  the 
moors.  Carlyle  himself  thought  that,  with  his  increasing 
reputation,  his  own  country  would  now,  perhaps,  do  some¬ 
thing  for  him.  His  first  letter  to  his  brother,  after  his  ar¬ 
rival,  was  written  in  his  usual  spirits. 

By  Heaven’s  grace,  lie  said,  I  nowise  want  merchants  of  a  sort 
for  my  wares ;  and  can  still,  even  in  these  days,  live.  So  long  as 
that  is  granted,  what  more  is  there  to  ask  ?  All  gigmanity  is  of 
the  Devil,  devilish  :  let  us  rather  be  thankful  if  we  are  shut  out 
even  from  the  temptation  thereto.  It  is  not  want  of  money  or 
money’s  worth  that  I  could  ever  complain  of  :  nay,  often  too  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  I  did  best  when  no  praise  was  given  me,  and  I 
stood  alone  between  the  two  eternities  with  my  feet  on  the  rock. 
But  what  I  mourn  over  is  the  too  frequent  obscuration  of  faith 


Winter  in  Edinburgh. 


265 


within  me ;  the  kind  of  exile  I  must  live  in  from  all  classes  of 
articulate  speaking  men  ;  the  dimness  that  reigns  over  all  my  prac¬ 
tical  sphere  ;  the  etc.,  etc.,  for  there  is  no  end  to  man’s  complain¬ 
ing.  One  thing  I  have  as  good  as  ascertained  :  that  Craigenput- 
tock  cannot  for  ever  be  my  place  of  abode  ;  that  it  is  at  present, 
and  actually,  one  of  the  worst  abodes  for  me  in  the  whole  wide 
world.  One  day  I  will  quit  it,  either  quietly  or  like  a  midr -break ; 
for  I  feel  well  there  are  things  in  me  to  be  told  which  may  cause 
the  ears  that  hear  them  to  tingle  !  Alien  mil  Mass  und  Regel!  As 
yet  I  decide  on  nothing  ;  will  no  wise  desert  the  whinstone  strong¬ 
hold  till  I  better  see  some  road  from  it.  I  could  live  again  in 
Edinburgh,  perhaps  still  more  willingly  in  London,  had  I  means. 
My  good  wife  is  ready  for  all  things,  so  we  wait  what  the  days 
bring  forth.  Perhaps  the  future  may  be  kinder  to  us  both  ;  but 
is  not  the  present  kind  ?  Full  of  work  to  do  ?  Write  me  all  things, 
my  dear  brother,  and  fear  not  that  you  shall  ever  want  my  sym¬ 
pathy.  Keep  diligent  in  business,  fervent  in  spirit,  serving  God ; 
that  is  the  sum  of  all  wisdom. 

For  the  first  week  or  two  Edinburgh  itself  was  not  dis¬ 
agreeable.  ‘  The  transition  was  singular  from  the  bare 
solitary  moors  to  crowded  streets  and  the  concourse  of 
men.’  The  streets  themselves  were  ‘  orderly  and  airy.’ 
4  The  reek  of  Auld  Peekie  herself  was  the  clearness  of 
mountain  tops  compared  to  the  horrible  vapours  of  Lon¬ 
don.’  Friends  came  about  them,  Jeffrey,  Sir  William 
Hamilton,  Harry  Xnglis,  and  many  more,  all  kind  and 
courteous;  but  their  way  of  thinking  was  not  Carlyle’s 
way  of  thinking,  ‘the  things  they  were  running  the  race 
for  were  no  prizes  for  him,’  and  4  he  felt  a  stranger  among 
them.’  ‘When  he  gave  voice’  ‘they  stared  at  him.’ 

‘  When  they  had  the  word,’  he  said,  ‘  he  listened  with  a 
sigh  or  a  smile.’  1  Then  came  another  disappointment.  A 
Professorship  at  Glasgow  was  vacant.  Jeffrey,  as  Lord 
Advocate,  had  the  appointment,  or  a  power  of  recommend¬ 
ing  which  would  be  as  emphatic  as  a  conge  d’elire.  Car¬ 
lyle  gave  Jeffrey  a  hint  about  it,  but  Jeffrey  left  for  Lon- 


1  Gibbon’s  expression. 


266 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


don  directly  after,  and  Carlyle  instinctively  felt  that  he 
was  not  to  have  it.  4  My  own  private  impression,5  he  said, 
4  is  that  I  shall  never  get  any  promotion  in  this  world,  and 
happy  shall  I  be  if  Providence  enable  me  only  to  stand  my 
own  friend.  That  is,  or  should  he,  all  the  prayer  I  offer 
to  Heaven.5 


Extracts  from  Journal. 

February  1,  1833. — Have  been  exploring  on  all  hands  the  fool¬ 
ish  history  of  the  Quack  Cagliostro.  Have  read  several  books 
about  him,  searching  far  and  wide  after  him  ;  learned,  I  ought  to 
admit,  almost  nothing.  Shall  I  study  this  enigma,  then  write  my 
solution  or  no-solution. 

Am  quite  bewildered,  deroute ,  know  not  whither  to  address  the 
little  energy  I  have  :  sick,  too,  and  on  the  whole  solitary,  though 
with  men  enough  about  me.  Sir  William  Hamilton,  the  one  that 
approaches  nearest  being  earnest :  he,  too,  does  not  attain  earnest¬ 
ness,  and  his  faculty  is  not  of  the  instructive  kind.  ‘  Help  thy¬ 
self  ;  heaven  will  help  thee  J  ’ 

The  Advocate  is  gone  :  to  join  the  new  Reformed  Parliament, 
where  may  he  prosper  !  Our  relation  is  done,  all  but  the  outward 
shell  of  it,  which  may  stick  there  as  long  as  it  can.  Respectability 
and  Fate-warfare  march  not  long  on  one  road.  All  is  whiggery 
here,  which  means  ‘  I  will  believe  whatsoever  I  shall  be  forced  to 
believe.’  In  this  country,  as  in  France,  the  main  movement  will 
come  from  the  capital.  Perhaps  it  may  be  sooner  than  one  ex¬ 
pects.  The  pressure  of  economical  difficulty  is  rapidly  augment¬ 
ing  ;  misery  of  that  and  all  kinds  is  prevalent  enough  here  ;  every¬ 
thing  wears  an  uneasy,  decaying  aspect,  yet  far  short  of  what 
strikes  one  in  London.  A  sorrowful,  poor,  unproductive  struggle, 
which  nevertheless  this  Age  was  fated  and  bound  to  undertake. 
On  with  it  then. 

Wilson  I  have  not  seen.  Is  he  afflicted  with  my  Radicalism  ?  Is 
he  simply  too  lazy  to  call  on  me,  or  indisposed  to  take  the  trouble 
of  etiquette  upon  him,  for  object  so  little  momentous  ?  Shall  I 
stand  on  etiquette  then  ?  It  is  of  small  consequence,  though  per¬ 
haps  the  issue  will  be  that  we  stand  not  only  apart  but  divided, 
which  I  have  no  wish  to  do.  Moil*  has  been  here  ;  in  all  senses  a 
neat  man,  in  none  a  strong  one.  Great  stupidity  reigns  here  I 
think  ;  but  what  then  ?  Grow  thou  wiser !  Brewster  has  lost  his 


Winter  in  Edinburgh. 


267 


canvass  for  Leslie’s  Professorship  and  is  about  entering  the  Eng¬ 
lish  Church,  they  say,  being  promised  a  living.  ‘  Once  a  noble 
soap  bell,  now  a  drop  of  sour  suds.’  Such  is  the  history  of  many 
men. 

The  bitter  old  Hebrew  implacability  of  that  couplet — 

On  those  that  do  me  hate 
I  my  desire  shall  see. 

One  day  they  will  be  even  as  I  wish  them  !  Envy  no  man,  for  such, 
sooner  or  later,  will  be  his  hard  fortune.  Nay,  in  any  case  does 
he  not  at  last  die  !  One  of  my  best  moods  (many  are  too  bad)  is 
that  of  sincere  pity  for  all  breathing  men.  Oftenest  it  is  a  sincere 
indifference.  Yesterday  it  seemed  to  me  death  was  actually  a 
cheerful  looking  thing  :  such  a  boundless  Possibility ;  no  longer 
hampered  by  the  so  strait  limits  of  this  world’s  time  and  space. 
Oh  for  faith  !  Truly  the  greatest  ‘  God  announcing  miracle  ’  al¬ 
ways  is  faith,  and  now  more  than  ever.  I  often  look  on  my 
mother  (nearly  the  only  genuine  Believer  I  know  of)  with  a  kind 
of  sacred  admiration.  Know  the  worth  of  Belief.  Alas !  canst 
thou  acquire  none  ? 

That  the  Supernatural  differs  not  from  the  Natural  is  a  great 
Truth,  which  the  last  century  (especially  in  France)  has  been  en¬ 
gaged  in  demonstrating.  The  Philosophers  went  far  wrong,  how¬ 
ever,  in  this,  that  instead  of  raising  the  natural  to  the  supernatural, 
they  strove  to  sink  the  supernatural  to  the  natural.  The  gist  of 
my  whole  way  of  thought  is  to  do  not  the  latter  but  the  former.  I 
feel  it  to  be  the  epitome  of  much  good  for  this  and  following  gen¬ 
erations  in  my  hands  and  in  those  of  innumerable  stronger  ones. 
Belief,  said  one  the  other  night,  has  done  immense  evil :  witness 
Knipperdolling  and  the  Anabaptists,  etc.  t  True,’  rejoined  I,  with 
vehemence,  almost  with  fury  (Proh  pudor !),  ‘  true  belief  has  done 
some  evil  in  the  world ;  but  it  has  done  all  the  good  that  was  ever 
done  in  it ;  from  the  time  when  Moses  saw  the  Burning  Bush  and 
believed  it  to  be  God  appointing  him  deliverer  of  His  people,  down 
to  the  last  act  of  belief  that  vou  and  I  executed.  Good  never 
came  from  aught  else.’ 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Edinburgh  :  February  10. 

I  have  not  been  idle  during  the  last  month  though  not  em¬ 
ployed  in  the  way  I  most  approve  of.  Since  the  article  Diderot, 
written  in  October,  I  have  never  put  pen  to  paper  till  last  week, 


268 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

.  d  i 

when  I  began  a  piece  for  Fraser  to  be  entitled  {  Cagliostro.’  1 
had  found  some  books  about  that  quack  here  :  it  will  take  me 
about  three  weeks  and  do  well  enough  as  a  parergon.  A  new  fluc¬ 
tuation  has  come  over  my  mode  of  publication  lately :  so  that 
the  things  most  at  heart  with  me  must  lie  in  abeyance  for  some 
time.  It  begins  to  be  presumable  that  the  ‘  Edinburgh  Review  ’  ' 
can  no  longer  be  my  vehicle,  for  this  reason,  were  there  no  others, 
that  Napier  is  among  the  w’orst  of  payers.  What  the  poor  man 
means  I  know  not ;  most  likely  he  is  in  utter  want  of  cash:  but  at 
any  rate  he  needs  to  be  twice  dunned  before  money  will  come 
from  him  ;  and  at  present  owes  me  some  30/.,  for  which  a  third 
dunning  w7ill  be  requisite.  This,  then,  simply  will  not  do  ;  I  will 
look  elsewhere,  take  new  measures,  as  indeed  solidity  or  perma¬ 
nence  of  any  kind  in  authorship  is  at  this  time  not  to  be  looked 
for.  Your  foundation  is  like  that  of  a  man  supporting  himself  in 
bog-lakes  on  floating  sheaves  or  sods.  The  massiest  will  sink  in 
a  minute  or  two,  and  you  must  look  out  for  new.  Fraser,  whose 
magazine  I  call  the  mud  one  (in  contradistinction  to  Tail’s,  or  the 
Sahara-sand  one),  is  very  fond  of  me,  and  at  bottom  an  honest 
creature.  Tait  also  would  be  glad  to  employ  me,  as  poor  Coch¬ 
rane  is.  .  .  .  On  the  whole  we  shall  find  means.  .  .  .  Meanwhile 
I  have  been  reading  violently,  about  the  Scotch  Kirk,  in  Knox, 
and  others  ;  about  the  French  Revolution,  in  Thiers,  which  Mill 
sent  me ;  about  the  Diamond  Necklace,  the  Greek  Revolt,  and 
what  not.  I  read  with  the  appetite  of  one  long  starved  ;  am 
oftenest  of  all  in  the  Advocates’  Library,  and  dig,  not  without 
result,  there.  My  head  is  never  empty ;  neither  is  my  heart, 
though  the  contents  of  both  are  by  times  rugged  enough.  They 
must  even  be  elaborated,  made  smooth  and  sweet.  I  could  write 
w7hole  volumes,  were  there  any  outlet :  and  will  (if  God  spare  me) 
both  write  them  and  find  an  outlet.  These  books,  I  fancy,  will 
be  one  of  our  main  conquests  in  Edinburgh.  As  to  the  men  here, 
they  are  beautiful  to  look  upon  after  mere  black-faced  sheep ;  yet 
not  persons  of  wThom  instruction  or  special  edification  in  any  way 
is  to  be  expected.  From  a  Highlander  you  once  for  all  cannot  get 
breeches.  Sir  William  Hamilton  is  almost  the  only  earnest  char¬ 
acter  I  find  in  this  city  :  we  take  somewhat  to  each  other ;  meet 
sometimes  with  mutual  satisfaction,  always  with  good-will. 

George  Moir  has  got  a  house  in  Northumberland  Street,  a  wife, 
too,  and  infants ;  is  become  a  Conservative,  settled  everywhere 
into  dilettante  ;  not  very  happy,  I  think ;  dry,  civil,  and  seems  to 


269 


Winter  in  Edinburgh. 

feel  unheimlich  in  my  company.  Aus  dem  wird  Nichts.  Weir  lias 
become  a  Radical  spouter,  and  they  say  is  gone  or  going  to  Glas¬ 
gow  to  start  as  ‘  able  Editor.’  Did  I  tell  you,  by  the  way,  that 
London  ‘  Spectator  ’  Douglas  had  come  to  Dumfries  in  that  capac¬ 
ity,  and  was  weekly  emitting  a  Radical  ‘  Dumfries  Times  ’  there  ? 
A  company  of  malcontent  writers  and  others  had  made  a  joint-stock 
for  that  end ;  it  is  feared  unsuccessfully.  John  Gordon  is  true 
as  steel  to  his  old  loves  ;  otherwise  a  rather  somnolent  man ;  we 
see  him  pretty  often.  He  has  got  appointed  College  Clerk  (or 
some  such  thing),  and  has  now  300k  a  year  and  is  happy  enough. 
Mitchell  is  quiet,  in  very  poor  health,  yet  cheerful,  hopeful  even, 
a  respectable  schoolmaster  now  and  henceforth.  I  saw  a  large 
didactic  company  at  dinner  with  him  yesterday  (for  nothing  else 
would  satisfy  him),  and  astonished  them  I  fear  with  my  exposi¬ 
tion  of  belief  and  Radicalism,  as  compared  with  opinion  and  Whig- 
gism.  There  was  an  £  old  stager,’  a  Doctor  Brown,  travelling 
tutor  college  lecturer,  statist,  geologist,  spiritual  scratcher,  and 
scraper  in  all  senses:  a  cold,  sharp,  hard,  unmalleable  ‘logic 
chopper  ’  good  to  behold — at  rare  intervals.  There  wTas  also  an 
advocate,  Semple,  an  overfoaming  Kantisf,  the  best-natured  and 
liveliest  of  all  small  men  ;  a  very  bottle  of  champagne  (or  soda 
water)  uncorked  :  we  did  well  enough. 

The  Advocate  came  jigging  up  to  us  very  often,  but  is  now  gone 
to  London.  He  asked  kindly  for  you,  and  desired  to  be  kindly 
remembered  to  his  ‘old  friend  the  Doctor.’  I  dined  with  him 
once  (Jane  could  not  go).  Napier  (besides  his  being  ‘for  ever  in 
the  small  debt  court !  ’)  is  a  man  of  wooden  structure  limited  in 
all  ways.  I  do  not  dislike  him,  but  feel  I  can  get  no  good  of 
him.  Wilson,  who  is  said  to  be  grown  far  quieter  in  his  habits, 
has  only  come  athwart  me  once.  He,  too,  lion  as  he  is,  cannot 
look  at  me  as  I  look  at  him  with  f  ree  regard,  but  eyes  me  from 
behind  veils,  doubtful  of  some  mischance  from  me,  political  or 
other.  I  suppose  I  shall  see  little  of  him,  and  at  bottom  need 
not  care. 

As  to  our  special  Befnden,  we  are  quite  peaceable,  content,  for 
the  present ;  though  both  of  us  have  a  dirty  under-foot  kind  of 
catarrh  for  the  last  three  weeks,  whereby  Jane  in  particular  suffers 
considerable — vexation,  rather  than  pain.  Otherwise  she  is  at 
least  not  worse.  We  go  out  not  often,  yet  oftener  than  we  wish ; 
have  society  enough  ;  the  best  the  ground  yields  :  the  time  for 
returning  to  Puttock  will  too  soon  be  here.  I  have  not  abated  in 


270 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


my  dislike  for  that  residence,  in  my  conviction  that  it  is  no  longer 
good  for  me.  Of  solitude  I  have  really  had  enough.  Yon  would 
be  surprised,  I  am  much  surprised  myself,  at  the  wondrous  figure 
I  often  make  when  I  rejoin  my  fellow  creatures.  The  talent  of 
conversation,  though  I  generally  talk  enough  and  to  spare,  has,  as 
it  were,  quite  forsaken  me.  In  place  of  skilful,  adroit  fencing, 
and  parrying,  as  was  fit  and  usual,  I  appear  like  a  wild,  monstrous 
Orson  amongst  the  people,  and  (especially  if  bilious)  smash  every¬ 
thing  to  pieces.  The  very  sound  of  my  voice  has  got  something 
savage-prophetic.  I  am  as  a  John  Baptist  girt  about  with  a 
leathern  girdle,  and  whose  food  is  locusts  and  wild  honey.  One 
must  civilise ;  it  is  really  quite  essential.  Here,  too,  as  in  all 
things,  practice  alone  can  teach.  However,  we  will  wait  and 
watch,  and  do  nothing  rashly.  Time  and  chance  happen  unto  all 
men. 

When  you  return  to  London  you  must  see  Mill ;  he  is  growing 
quite  a  believer,  mystisch  gesinnt ,  yet  with  all  his  old  utilitarian 
logic  quite  alive  in  him ;  a  remarkable  sort  of  man,  faithful,  one 
of  the  faithfullest  (yet  with  so  much  calmness)  in  these  parts. 

Carlyle,  it  will  have  been  observed,  had  for  some  time 
spoken  cheerfully  of  his  wife,  as  not  well,  but  as  better 
than  she  had  been.  He  observed  nothing,  as  through  his 
life  he  never  did  observe  anything,  about  her  which  called 
away  his  attention  from  his  work  and  from  what  was 
round  him.  A  characteristic  postscript  in  her  own  hand 
gives  a  sadly  different  picture  of  her  condition. 

My  dear  John, — If  I  kept  my  word  no  better  in  my  daily  walk 
and  conversation  than  I  do  in  this  matter  of  writing,  I  should  de¬ 
serve  to  be  forthwith  drummed  out  of  creation,  but  I  beg  you  to 
believe  my  failure  here  an  exception  to  the  general  rule. 

In  truth,  I  am  always  so  sick  now  and  so  heartless  that  I  cannot 
apply  myself  to  any  mental  effort  without  a  push  from  necessity ; 
and  as  I  get  the  benefit  of  your  letters  to  Carlyle  and  see  how 
faithfully  he  pays  you  back,  I  always  persuade  myself  when  the 
time  comes  that  there  is  no  call  on  me  to  strike  into  the  corre¬ 
spondence.  But  I  assure  you  my  silence  has  nothing  to  do  with 
indifference.  I  watch  your  thun  und  lassen  with  true  and  sisterly 
interest,  and  rejoice  with  my  husband  to  see  you  in  so  hopeful  a 
course.  Everyone  gets  the  start  of  poor  me.  Indeed,  for  the  last 


Winter  in  Edinburgh. 


271 


year  I  have  not  made  an  inch  of  way,  but  have  sate  whimpering 
on  a  milestone  lamenting  over  the  roughness  of  the  road.  If  you 
would  come  home  and  set  my  *  interior  ’  to  rights,  it  Would  won¬ 
derfully  facilitate  the  problem  of  living.  But  perhaps  it  is  best 
for  me  that  it  should  not  be  made  easier. 

Edinburgh  society  pleased  less  the  longer  the  Carlyles 
stayed.  The  fault  partially,  perhaps,  was  in  Carlyle’s  own 
spiritual  palate,  which  neither  that  nor  anything  was  likely 
to  please. 

As  for  the  people  here  (he  tells  his  mother  at  the  beginning  of 
March),  they  are  very  kind,  and  would  give  us  three  dinners  for 
one  that  we  can  eat ;  otherwise,  I  must  admit  them  to  be  rather  a 
barren  set  of  men.  The  spirit  of  Mammon  rules  all  their  world — 
Whig,  Tory,  Kadical.  All  are  alike  of  the  earth,  earthy.  They 
look  upon  me  as  a  strong,  well-intending,  utterly  misguided 
man,  who  must  needs  run  his  head  against  posts.  They  are  very 
right.  I  shall  never  make  any  fortune  in  the  world ;  unless  it 
were  that  highest  of  all  conceivable  fortunes,  the  fortune  to  do, 
in  some  smallest  degree,  my  All-wise  Taskmaster’s  bidding  here. 
May  He,  of  His  great  grace,  enable  me  !  I  offer  up  no  other 
prayer.  x\re  not  my  days  numbered  :  a  span’s  thrift  in  the  sea  of 
eternity?  Fool  is  he  who  would  speak  lies  or  act  lies,  for  the 
better  or  worse  that  can  befall  him  for  that  least  of  little  whiles. 
I  say,  therefore,  lie  away  worthy  brethren,  lie  to  all  lengths,  be 
promoted  to  all  lengths ;  but  as  for  me  and  my  house  we  will  not 
lie  at  all.  Again  I  say,  God  enable  us !  and  so  there  it  rests. 
Ought  not  my  father’s  and  my  mother’s  son  to  speak  even  so  ? 

A  few  days  later  lie  writes  to  liis  brother  Alick. 

Edinburgh  continues  one  of  the  dullest  and  poorest,  and,  on  the 
whole,  paltriest  of  places  for  me.  I  cannot  remember  that  I  have 
heard  one  sentence  with  true  meaning  in  it  uttered  since  I  came 
hither.  The  very  power  of  thought  seems  to  have  forsaken  this 
Athenian  city ;  at  least,  a  more  entirely  shallow,  barren,  unfruit¬ 
ful,  and  trivial  set  of  persons  than  those  I  meet  with,  never,  that 
I  remember,  came  across  my  bodily  vision.  One  has  no  right  to 
be  angry  with  them  ;  poor  fellows ;  far  from  it !  Yet  does  it  re¬ 
main  evident  that  4  Carlyle  is  wasting  his  considerable  talents  on 
impossibilities,  and  can  never  do  any  good  ’  ?  Time  will  show. 
For  the  present,  poor  man,  he  is  quite  fixed  to  try.  ...  At  any 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


oyo 

Jj  i  L 


rate,  there  are  some  good  books  here  that  one  can  borrow  and 
read ;  kindly  disposed  human  creatures,  too,  who,  though  they 
cannot  without  a  shudder  see  one  spit  in  the  Devil’s  face  so,  yet 
wish  one  well,  almost  love  one. 

To  Mill  also  lie  had  written  a  letter  full  of  discontent, 
and  looking,  in  the  absence  of  comfort  in  Edinburgh  so¬ 
ciety  about  him,  for  sympathy  from  his  friend.  But  Mill 
rather  needed  comfort  for  himself  than  was  in  a  situation 
to  console  others.  lie,  like  many  others,  had  expected 
that  the  Beform  Bill  would  bring  the  Millennium,  and  the 
Millennium  was  as  far  off  as  ever. 

To  his  mother,  whatever  his  humour,  Carlyle  wrote 
regularly.  To  her,  more  than  even  to  his  brother,  he 
showed  his  real  heart.  She  was  never  satisfied  without 
knowing  the  smallest  incidents  of  his  life  and  occupation ; 
and  he,  on  his  part,  was  on  the  watch  for  opportunities  to 
give  her  pleasure,  lie  had  sent  her  from  Edinburgh  a 
copy  of  ‘  Thomas  a  Kempis,’  with  an  introduction  by  Chal¬ 
mers.  The  introduction.  he  considered  6  wholly,  or  in  great 
part,  a  clad.'1  Of  the  book  itself  he  says  :  c  Hone,  I  believe, 
except  the  Bible,  has  been  so  universally  read  and  loved 
by  Christians  of  all  tongues  and  sects.  It  gives  me  pleas¬ 
ure  to  think  that  the  Christian  heart  of  my  good  mother 
may  also  derive  nourishment  and  strengthening  from  what 
has  already  nourished  and  strengthened  so  many.’  In 
Edinburgh  he  described  himself  as  at  home,  yet  not  at 
home  ;  unable  to  gather  out  of  the  place  or  its  inhabitants 
the  sustenance  which  he  had  looked  for. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig. 

Edinburgh  :  February  13,  1833. 

From  the  first  tlie  appearance  of  the  place,  as  contrasted  with 
the  boiling  uproar  of  London,  has  seemed  almost  stagnant  to  ns. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  getting  yourself  pmperly  elbowed  in  a 
‘flood  of  life.’  The  noise,  too  (except  that  of  the  watchman  while 
we  slept  in  a  front  roon£),  is  quite  trifling  and  inadequate  !  As  for 


273 


Winter  in  Edinburgh. 

the  people,  they  are  now,  as  formerly,  all  of  one  sort :  meet  twenty 
of  them  in  a  day,  they  are  all  most  probably  talking  of  the  same 
subject ;  and  that  mostly  an  insignificant  one,  and  handled  in  an 
insignificant  way.  And  yet,  poor  fellows,  how  are  they  to  be 
blamed?  It  is  ‘more  their  misfortune  than  their  crime.’  What 
sense  is  in  them  they  no  doubt  honestly  exhibit.  Some  cheering 
exceptions,  too,  one  now  and  then  falls  in  with  ;  indeed,  for  my 
own  small  share,  I  can  no  wise  complain  that  honest  sympathy,  « 
even  love,  and  respect  far  beyond  desert,  is  withheld  from  me 
here.  This  I  receive  with  the  greater  clearness  of  appreciation, 
that  (hardened  by  long  custom)  I  had  from  of  old  learned  to  do 
without  it.  Nevertheless,  that  also  is  a  mercy,  and  should  be 
thankfully  made  use  of.  I  think  I  have  seen  few  people  of  note 
since  I  last  wrote.  I  met  Wilson  in  the  street  one  day,  and  ex¬ 
changed  civilities  with  him.  He  is  looking  a  little  older  ;  was 
wrapped  in  a  cloak  for  cold,  and  undertook  to  come  and  talk  at 
home  with  me,  ‘if  I  would  allow  him,’  the  very  first  day  he  had 
leisure.  I  am  glad  we  met,  since  now  there  need  be  no  awk¬ 
wardness  or  grudge  between  us  :  whether  we  meet  a  second  time 
or  not  is  of  little  or  no  moment.  Henry  Inglis  has  had  my  book 
reading,1  and  returns  it  with  a  most  ecstatic  exaggerated  letter; 
wherein  this  is  comfortable,  that  he  has  seized  the  drift  of  the 
speculation,  and  can,  if  he  pleases,  lay  ft  to  heart.  There  are,  per¬ 
haps,  many  such  in  this  island  whom  it  may  profit ;  so  that  I 
stand  by  the  old  resolution  to  print  at  my  own  risk  so  soon  as  I 
have  60/.  to  spare,  but  not  till  then.  Meanwhile,  my  dear  mother, 

I  beg  you  again  and  again  to  take  care  of  yourself ;  especially  in 
this  wild,  gusty  February  weather.  Consider  your  welfare  not  as 
your  own,  but  as  that  of  others,  to  whom  it  is  precious  beyond 
price.  I  hope  they  are  all  kind,  submissive,  and  helpful  to  you  : 
it  well  beseems  them  and  me.  Forgive  them  if  any  of  them  of¬ 
fend  ;  for  I  know  well  no  offence  is  intended  :  it  is  but  the  sinful 
infirmity  of  nature,  wherein  mortals  should  bear  with  one  another. 

Oh  !  ought  we  not  to  live  in  mutual  love  and  unity,  as  a  thing 
seemly  for  men,  pleasing  in  the  sight  of  God !  We  shall  so  soon 
be  parted,  and  then,  Happy  is  he  who  has  forgiven  much. 

From  the  Journal. 

Friday ,  15  [March?). — Beautiful  spring  day;  the  season  of 
hope  !  My  scribble  prospering  very  ill.  Persevere,  and  thou  wilt 

1  Sartor  in  MS.  t 


Vol.  II.— 18 


274 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


improve.  Sir  Wm.  Hamilton’s  supper  (three  nights  ago)  has  done 
me  mischief ;  will  hardly  go  to  another.  Wordsworth  talked  of 
there  (by  Captain  T.  Hamilton,  his  neighbour).  [Represented 
verisimilarly  enough  as  a  man  full  of  English  prejudices,  idle, 
alternately  gossiping  to  enormous  lengths,  and  talking,  at  rare  in¬ 
tervals,  high  wisdom  ;  on  the  wThole,  endeavouring  to  make  out  a 
plausible  life ’of  half  ness  in  the  Tory  way,  as  so  many  on  all  sides 
do.  Am  to  see  him  if  I  please  to  go  thither ;  would  go  but  a 
shortish  way  for  that  end. 

The  brevity  of  life  ;  the  frightful  voracity  of  Time  !  This  is  no 
fancy  ;  it  is  a  wondrous  unfathomable  reality,  and  daily  grows 
more  wondrous  to  me.  ‘  Poor  is  what  my  lord  doth  say ;  ’  let  him 
to  work  then. 

Beautiful  that  f  here  and  now,  am  alive  !  Beautiful  to  see  so 
many  incorporated  spirits,  all  six  feet  high  (as  in  the  oldest  heroic 
ages),  all  full  of  force,  passion,  impetuosity,  mystery,  as  at  the 
first.  ‘  The  young  new  blood  !  ’  it  flows  and  flows  ;  the  spirit  host 
marches  unweariedly  on — whither  ? 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

March  16,  1833. 

I  have  begun  a  kind  of  scribblement.  It  is  for  ‘  Eraser ;  ’  a  fool¬ 
ish  story  about  a  certain  Italian  ‘  King  of  Quacks,’  whom  I  have 
long  been  curious  about,  and  am  now  going  to  make  known  to  all 
the  world — for  some  forty  guineas,  if  I  can  get  them.  You  will 
see  it  in  time.  The  long  piece  I  did  on  the  Erenchmanin  summer 
came  to  be  corrected  very  lately.  It  also  will  soon  be  out,  and  I 
hope  will  give  satisfaction  at  Scotsbrig.  I  have  plenty  of  other 
things  to  write  ;  but  should  now  rather  lay  myself  out  for  getting 
books  and  materials.  Craigenputtock  is  the  place  for  writing. 
This  same  ‘  King  of  Quacks  ’  ought  to  pay  our  expenses  here  and 
back  again.  I  am  growing  little  richer,  yet  also  no  poorer.  The 
book  can  hardly  be  printed  this  season,  but  one  ought  to  be  con¬ 
tent.  I  really  am  rather  content ;  the  rather  as  I  do  not  imagine 
there  is  any  completer  anti-gigman  extant  in  the  whole  world  at 
present. 

Among  the  new  figures  I  have  seen,  none  attracts  me  in  any 
measure  except  perhaps  Knox’s  Dr.  McCrie,  whom  I  mean  (as  he 
rather  pressingly  invited  me)  to  go  and  call  on  were  I  a  little  at 
leisure.  A  broad,  large,  stiff-backed,  stalking  kind  of  man,  dull, 
heavy,  but  intelligent  and  honest.  We  spoke  a  little  about  Scotch 


Winter  in  Edinburgh. 


275 


worthies  and  martyrs,  and  I  mean  to  ask  him  more.  My  notion 
of  writing  a  book  on  that  subject  grows  rather  than  decays. 

If  I  tell  you  that  our  health  is  very  much  what  it  was  (the  old 
doctor  still  coming  about  Jane,  but  professing  his  inability  to  help 
her  much),  I  think  there  is  a  very  copious  picture  of  our  condition 
here.  As  for  you,  my  dear  mother,  Alick  would  persuade  me  that 
you  are  in  the  usual  way,  4  resigned  wonderfully,  and  even  con¬ 
tented.  .  He  says,  4  it  is  only  after  having  had  something  to  do 
with  this  world  that  we  can  learn  rightly  to  love  and  reverence 
such  a  life  as  hers.’  Be  resigned,  my  dear  mother.  4  Still  trust  in 
God.’  He  will  not  leave  us  nor  forsake  us,  not  in  death  itself,  nor 
in  aught  that  lies  between  us  and  death.  On  our  love,  moreover, 
(fount  always,  as  on  a  thing  yours  by  good  right.  The  longer  I 
live,  the  more  I  feel  how  good  is  your  right.  Let  us  hope  then  to 
find  you  well  in  the  early  days  of  May,  if  not  sooner ;  once  again 
in  this  pilgrimage  to  meet  in  peace.  Might  we  but  meet  in  peace 
where  there  is  parting  no  more  !  This  also  if  it  be  for  good  will 
be  provided  us.  God  is  great.  God  is  good. 

March  26. — I  have  finished  my  paper  on  the  4  Quack  of  Quacks,’ 
but  got  no  new  one  fallen  to,  the  house  being  in  a  kind  of  racket 
for  the  present.  Mrs.  Welsh  is  here,  and  Miss  Helen  Welsh  from 
Liverpool ;  and  though,  if  I  determined  on  it,  I  can  have  my  own 
fire  and  room,  and  bolt  it  against  all  people,  it  seems  not  worth 
while  at  present,  for  I  am  better  resting.  I  had  made  myself  bil¬ 
ious  enough  with  my  writing,  and  had  need  to  recover  as  I  am 
doing. 

As  for  my  own  dame,  she  agrees  but  indifferently  with  these 
wild  March  winds  :  as  I  fear  my  mother  does  too.  The  advice  I 
will  always  reiterate  is,  take  care  of  yourself,  dear  mother.  Such 
splashing  and  sleeting,  with  bright  deceitful  sun-blinks,  and  the 
firm,  nipping  north  wind,  need  in  all  ways  to  be  guarded  against. 

Napier  has  been  obliged  (by  dunning)  to  pay  me  my  money  ;  he 
has  paid  rather  stintedly,  but  it  will  do.  We  are  to  dine  with  him 
on  Friday.  My  writing  for  him  is  probably  over. 

Did  Alick  show  you  Irving’s  speech  at  the  Annan  Presbytery  ? 
I  read  it  with  a  mixture  of  admiration  and  deep  pain ;  the  man  is 
of  such  heroic  temper,  and  of  head  so  distracted.  The  whole  mat¬ 
ter  looked  to  me  like  a  horrid  kind  of  Merry  Andrew  tragedy. 
Poor  Dow,  I  think,  will  end  in  a  madhouse  :  Irving  will  end  one 
cannot  prophesy  how ;  he  must  go  from  w7ild  to  w7ilder.  This  is 


276  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

the  issue  of  what  once  appeared  the  highest  blessing  for  him — 
Popularity ! 

Lady  Clare  was  returning  to  England  for  the  summer. 
John  Carlyle  was  coming  with  her,  and  the  family  were 
looking  eagerly  forward  to  his  arrival  in  Annandale. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Florence. 

Edinburgh  :  March  29,  1833. 

You  will  find  much  changed  in  Dumfriesshire,  but  not  the  affec¬ 
tion  of  those  that  remain  for  you.  There  will  be  much  to  tell, 
much  to  speculate  upon  and  devise  for  the  time  that  is  to  come. 

.  .  I  have  thought  much  about  your  future  of  late  ;  see  it  like 
all  our  futures,  full  of  obstruction :  nevertheless  will  not  cease 
to  hope  good.  It  is  a  most  ruinous  chaotic  time,  this  of  ours,  a 
time  of  confusion  outwTard  and  inward,  of  falsehood,  imbecility, 
destitution,  desperation,  unbelief ;  w7oe  to  him  v7lio  has  within 
him  no  light  of  Faith,  to  guide  his  steps  through  it !  My  main 
comfort  about  you  is  to  see  the  grand  practical  lesson  of  ErtsagenJ 
impressing  itself  in  ineffaceable  devoutness  on  your  heart ;  herein, 
it  is  wTell  said,  eigentlich  beginnt  das  Leben.  Whoso  is  a  man  may 

i  ’ 

in  all  seasons,  scenes,  and  circumstances  live  like  a  man.  Let  us 
take  the  world  bravely  then,  and  fight  bravely  to  the  end,  since 
nothing  else  has  been  ajypointed  us.  I  have  inquired  with  myself 
often  whether  you  should  settle  here,  at  London,  or  where.  This 
is  but  a  pitiful  place,  but  indeed  all  places  are  pitiful.  In  the 
grand  universal  race  towards  ruin  (economical)  wre  are,  as  I  judge, 
almost  a  vdrole  generation  behind  London.  Nevertheless,  here  too 
things  are  advancing  with  most  rapid  pace  ;  a  few  years  will  bring 
us  a  long  way.  Universal  Poverty  is  already  here  ;  numerous  per¬ 
sons,  and  these  are  the  wTisest,  determine  this  season  to  fly  over 
seas,  to  America,  Australia,  anywdiither  wThere  the  famine  is  not. 
Buin  economical  is  not  far  distant ;  and  then  in  regard  to  ruin 
spiritual  I  should  say  that  it  wTas  already  triumphant  among  us  ; 
wdiile  in  chaotic  London  there  were  blissful  symptoms  here  and 
there  discernible  of  paling enesia.  This  makes  the  difference.  In 
London,  amid  its  huge  deafening  hubbub  of  a  Death- song,  are  to 
be  heard  tones  of  a  Birth-song  ;  wdiile  here  all  is  putrid,  scanda- 

1  This  word,  which  so  often  occurs  in  Carlyle’s  letters,  means  briefly  a  reso¬ 
lution  fixedly  and  clearly  made  to  do  without  the  various  pleasant  things — 
wealth,  promotion,  fame,  honour,  and  the  other  rewards  with  which  the  world 
rewards  the  services  which  it  appreciates. 


Winter  in  Edinburgh.  277 

Ions,  decadent,  hypocritical,  and  sounds  through  your  soul  like 
lugubrious  universal  Ncenia,  chaunted  by  foul  midnight  hags. 
There  is  misanthropy  and  philanthropy  for  you  expressed  with 
poetic  emphasis  enough. 

In  sober  truth,  however,  it  might  almost  surprise  one  to  con¬ 
sider  how  infinitely  small  a  quantity,  not  of  enlightened  speech, 
one  catches  here,  but  even  of  speech  at  all ;  for  the  jargon  that  is 
uttered  without  conviction  from  the  teeth  outwards,  who  would 
name  that  speech  ?  Peace  be  with  it !  There  are  books  to  be  got 
at ;  air  to  breathe ;  and,  lastly,  a  coach  to  carry  you  back  moor- 
wards  when  that  becomes  more  tolerable. 

Most  likely  I  mentioned  last  time  that  I  was  writing  a  paper  on 
Cagliostro.  I  might,  perhaps  with  advantage,  have  asked  you 
some  questions  about  his  last  scene  of  life,  your  Roman  St.  Angelo, 
but  I  did  not  recollect  that  possibility,  and  now  the  thing  is  all 
finished  off,  perhaps  more  carefully  than  it  deserved  to  be.  It  is 
for  Fraser,  and  may  perhaps  suit  him  well  enough ;  otherwise  I 
value  the  article  below  a  pin’s  price ;  it  will  do  no  ill,  and  that  is 
the  most  one  can  say  of  it.  I  am  partly  minded  next  to  set  forth 
some  small  narrative  about  the  Diamond  Necklace ,  once  so  cele¬ 
brated  a  business,  but  must  wTait  a  day  or  two  till  I  have  freles 
Feld.  It  will  serve  me  till  about  the  time  of  our  departure  home¬ 
wards,  which  we  date  a  month  hence . Wilson  I  have  met 

only  once ;  I  had  called  on  him  before ;  as  he  never  returned  it,  I 
could  not  go  near  him  again,  more  especially  after  all  the  blath¬ 
ering  stuff  he  had  uttered  on  the  matter  for  years  past.  I  still 
read  his  Magazine  palaver  with  an  affectionate  interest ;  believe 
that  there  is  nothing  to  be  got  from  him.  We  will  not  quarrel, 
but  also  we  shall  not  agree.  This  night  Gordon  invites  me  to 
meet  him  at  supper,  but  I  cannot  resolve  to  go ;  the  man  is  not 
worth  an  indigestion.  De  Quincey,  who  has  been  once  seen  out 
this  winter,  sent  me  word  he  would  come  and  see  me  ;  he  will  do 
no  such  thing,  poor  little  fellow ;  he  has  hardly  got  out  of  his 
cessio  bonorum,  and  for  the  present  (little  Moir,  his  friend,  patheti¬ 
cally  says)  ‘  is  living  on  game  which  has  spoiled  on  the  poulterer’s 
hands,’  having  made  a  bargain  to  that  effect  with  him,  and  even 
run  up  a  score  of  fifteen  pounds.  Sir  William  Hamilton  I  like 
best  of  any,  but  see  little  of  him.  I  even  met  the  ‘hash’  B  .  .  .  .  , 
who  has  mounted  a  carriage  now  and  rides  prosperously.  ‘  I 
saw  the  wicked  great  in  power.’  It  was  at  Moir’s,  this  rencounter, 
at  dinner  ;  the  ‘  hash  ’  somewhat  reconciled  to  me  by  his  presence  ; 


278 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


I  traced  in  him  several  features  of  nay  friend  Cagliostro,  and  said 
honestly,  Live  then,  enjoy  thyself  as  subaltern  quack.  The  devil 
is  very  busy  with  us  all.  Naso  I  visited  in  the  dining  way  yester¬ 
night,  for  the  first  and  probably  last  time.  He  affected  to  be  ex¬ 
tremely  kind,  and  our  party  (with  an  American  anti-slave  en¬ 
thusiast  in  it)  wTent  off  quite  happily ;  but  Naso  wants  that  first 
fundamental  requisite  of  genius,  I  fear,  common  honesty.  He  has 
paid  me,  and  shabbily,  and  on  compulsion,  that  last  debt  of  his ; 
and  now  as  I  reckon  our  editorial  relation  may  have  terminated. 
That  pecuniary  defalcation  of  his  again  sorrowfully  altered  my 
scriptory  method  of  procedure.  But  we  cannot  help  it.  Must 
even  turn  ourselves  elsewhere. 

The  Deformed  Parliament  disappoints  every  one  but  me  and  the 
Tories.  Endless  jargon ;  no  business  done.  I  do  not  once  a 
month  look  at  the  side  of  the  world  it  sits  on  ;  let  it  go  to  the 
Devil  its  own  way.  ...  Of  poor  Edward  Irving  your  Galignani 
will  perhaps  have  told  you  enough  ;  he  came  to  Annan  to  be  de¬ 
posed  ;  made  a  heroico-distracted  speech  there,  Dow  finishing  off 
with  a  Holy  Ghost  shriek  or  two  ;  whereupon  Irving,  calling  on 
them  to  ‘hear  that,’  indignantly  withdrew.  He  says,  in  a  letter 
printed  in  the  newspapers,  that  he  ‘  did  purpose  to  tarry  in  those 
parts  certain  days,  and  publish  in  the  towns  of  the  coast  the  great 
name  of  the  Lord  ;  ’  which  purpose  ‘  he  did  accomplish,’  jmblish- 
ing  everywhere  a  variety  of  things.  He  was  at  Ecclefechan,  Jean 
writes  us ;  gray,  toilworn,  haggard,  with  ‘  an  immense  cravat  the 
size  of  a  sowing-sheet  covering  all  his  breast ;  ’  the  country  people 
are  full  of  zeal  for  him ;  but  everywhere  else  his  very  name  is  an 
offence  in  decent  society.  ‘  Publish  in  the  towns  of  the  Coast !  ’ 
Oh  !  it  is  a  Pickle-herring  Tragedy :  the  accursedest  thing  one’s  eye 
could  light  on.  As  for  Dow,  he  must  surely  ere  long  end  in  a 
madhouse.  For  our  poor  friend  one  knows  not  what  to  predict. 

Jane  has  walked  very  strictly  by  old  Dr.  Hamilton’s  law,  with¬ 
out  any  apparent  advantage.  Her  complaint  seems  like  mine,  a 
kind  of  seated  dyspepsia  ;  no  medicine  is  of  avail,  only  regimen 
(when  once  one  can  find  it  out),  free  air,  and,  if  that  was  possible, 
cheerfulness  of  mind.  She  bears  up  with  fixed  resolution,  ap¬ 
pears  even  to  enjoy  many  things  in  Edinburgh,  yet  lias  grown  no 
stronger  of  late.  We  must  take  the  good  and  the  ill  together,  and 
still  hope  for  the  better.  She  sends  you  her  affection,  and  hopes 
we  shall  all  meet  at  Craigenputtock  once  more.  Be  it  so,  if  it 
pleases  God.  All  things,  as  your  faith  tells  you,  will  turn  out  for 


Winter  in  Edinburgh. 


279 


good  if  we  ourselves  prove  good.  Meanwhile,  the  only  clear  duty 

of  man  lies  in  this,  and  nothing  else — work,  work  wisely,  while  it 

is  called  to-day.  Nothing  in  this  universe  now  frightens  me, 

though  yearly  it  grows  more  stupendous,  more  divine  ;  and  the 

terrestrial  life  appointed  us  more  poor  and  brief.  Eternity  looks 

grander  and  kinder  if  Time  grow  meaner  and  more  hostile.  I 

defy  Time  and  the  spirit  of  Time. 

•»  * 

Farewell,  dear  John. 

.  Ever  vour  brother,. 

V  j 

T.  Carlyle. 

Tlie  account  of  tlie  visit  to  Edinburgh  began  with  an 
extract  from  Carlyle’s  ETote-hook.  It  may  end  with  an¬ 
other. 

March  31. 

Wonderful,  and  alas  !  most  pitiful  alternations  of  belief  and 
unbelief  in  me.  On  the  whole  no  encouragement  to  be  met  with 
here  in  Edinburgh;  ‘all  men,’  says  John  Gordon  naively,  ‘are 
quite  taken  up  with  making  a  livelihood.’  It  is  taken  for  grant¬ 
ed,  I  find,  that  of  me  nothing  can  be  made — that  I  am,  econom¬ 
ically  speaking,  but  a  lost  man.  No  great  error  there,  perhaps  ; 
but  if  it  is  added  by  my  friends  themselves  that  therefore  I  am 
spiritually  lost  ?  One’s  ears  are  bewildered  by  the  inane  chatter 
of  the  x>eople ;  one’s  heart  is  for  hours  and  days  overcast  by  the 
sad  feeling  :  ‘  There  is  none  then,  not  one,  that  will  believe  in 
me !  ’  Great  in  this  life  is  the  communion  of  man  with  man. 
Meanwhile,  continue  to  believe  in  thyself.  Let  the  chattering  of 
innumerable  gigmen  pass  by  thee  as  what  it  is.  Wait  thou  on  the 
bounties  of  thy  unseen  Taskmaster,  on  the  hests  of  thy  inward 
Daemon.  Sow  the  seed  field  of  Time.  What  if  tliou  see  no  fruit 
of  it  ?  another  will.  Be  not  weak. 

Neither  fear  thou  that  this  thy  great  message  of  the  Natural 
being  the  Supernatural  will  wholly  perish  unuttered.  One  way  or 
other  it  will  and  shall  be  uttered — write  it  down  on  paper  any  way  ; 
speak  it  from  thee — so  shall  thy  painful,  destitute  existence  not 
have  been  in  vain.  Oh,  in  vain  ?  Hadst  thou,  even  thou,  a  mes¬ 
sage  from  the  Eternal,  and  thou  grudgest  the  travail  of  thy  em¬ 
bassy  ?  O  thou  of  little  faith  ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 


A.D.  1833.  2ET.  38. 

The  four  months’  experience  of  Edinburgh  had  convinced 
Carlyle  that  there  at  least  could  he  -no  permanent  home 
for  him.  If  driven  to  leave  his  ‘  castle  on  the  moor,’  it 
must  be  for  London — only  London.  In  April  he  found 
that  he  had  gathered  sufficient  materials  for  his  article  on 
the  Diamond  Xecklaee,  which  he  could  work  up  at  Craig- 
enputtock.  At  the  beginning  of  May  he  was  again  in 
Annandale  on  his  way  home,  Mrs.  Carlyle  miserably  ill, 
and  craving  like  a  wounded  wild  animal  to  creep  away  out 
of  human  sight.  £  I  left  Edinburgh,’  he  wrote,  6  with  the 
grieved  heart  customary  to  me  on  visits  thither  ;  a  wretched 
infidel  place ;  not  one  man  that  could  forward  you,  co¬ 
operate  with  you  in  any  useful  thing.  Scarcely  one  I  could 
find  (except  Sir  ATilliam  Hamilton)  that  could  speak  a  sin¬ 
cere  word.  I  bought  several  books  in  Edinburgh,  carried 
back  with  me  materials  enough  for  reflection ;  the  very 
contradictions,  even  unjust  ones,  you  meet  with,  are  ele¬ 
ments  of  new  progress.  My  presence  there  was  honoured 
with  many  a  kind  civility,  too  ;  was  publicly  acknowledged 
by  a  kind  of  lampoon,  laudative- vituperative  (as  it  ought 
to  be),  by  one  Brown,  editor  of  a  newspaper,  whom  I  have 
known  at  a  distance  as  a  blustering  bubblyjock  much  given 
to  fabrication ;  on  the  other  hand,  I  relieved  Professor 
Wilson  from  the  necessity  of  fabricating  any  more  in  my 
behalf  by  decidedly  cutting  him  the  day  before  we  left 
town.  I  was  quite  wearied  with  the  man,  his  deep  desire 
to  be  familiar  with  me,  his  numerous  evasions  to  meet  me, 


281 


Estimate  of  John  Wilson. 

his  lies  to  excuse  these  ;  and  so  in  mere  Christian  charity 
brought  it  to  an  end.  My  feelings  to  him  remain,  I  hope, 
unchanged,  as  much  as  I  can  make  them — admiration  for 
a  very  superior  talent,  for  many  gleams  of  worth  and  gen¬ 
erosity  ;  contempt,  pity  for  his  cowardice,  for  his  want  of 
spiritual  basis,  which  renders  all  his  force  a  self-destructive 
one,  properly  no  force  at  all.  Thus  did  I  finish  off  with 
Edinburgh,  not  in  the  most  balsamic  fashion.’ 

The  work  which  Carlyle  had  done  in  the  winter  had 
more  than  paid  his  modest  expenses.  lie  was  still  unde¬ 
termined  how  next  to  proceed,  and  felt  a  need  of  rest  and 
reflection.  It  seemed,  he  said,  as  if  ‘  the  first  act  of  his 
life  was  closing,  the  second  not  yet  opened.’  Means  to  go 
on  upon  were  found  in  the  hitherto  unfortunate  Teufels- 
drockli.  Unable  to  find  an  accoucheur  who  would  intro-’ 
duce  him  to  the  world  complete,  he  was  to  be  cut  in  pieces 
and  produced  limb  by  limb  in  4  Fraser’s  Magazine.’  Era¬ 
ser,  however,  who  had  hitherto  paid  Carlyle  twenty  guineas 
a  sheet  for  his  articles  (five  guineas  more  than  he  paid  any 
other  contributor),  had  to  stipulate  for  paying  no  more  than 
twelve  upon  this  unlucky  venture.  Ten  sheets  were  to  be 
allotted  to  Teufel  in  ten  successive  numbers.  Thus  £  Sartor 
Resartus  ’  was  to  find  its  way  into  print  at  last  in  this  and  the 
following  year,  and  sufficient  money  was  provided  for  the 
Craigenputtock  housekeeping  for  another  twelve  months. 

The  summer  so  begun  was  a  useful  and  not  unpleas¬ 
ant  one.  John  Carlyle,  returning  from  Italy,  spent  two 
months  of  it*  in  his  brother’s  house,  intending  at  the  end 
of  them  to  rejoin  Lady  Clare  and  go  again  abroad  with 
her.  There  were  occasional  visits  to  Scotsbrig.  Many 
books  were  read,  chiefly  about  the  French  Revolution, 
while  from  the  Journal  it  appears  that  Carlyle  was  putting 
himself  through  a  severe  cross-examination,  discovering, 
for  one  thing,  that  he  was  too  intolerant,  6  liis  own  private 
discontent  mingling  considerably  With  his  zeal  against  evil- 


282 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


doers/  too  contemptuously  indifferent  £  to  those  who  were 
not  forwarding  him  on  his  course ;  ’  wanting  in  courtesy, 
and  £  given  to  far  too  much  emphasis  in  the  expression  of 
his  convictions.’  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  ascertain 
what  his  special  powers  were,  and  what  were  the  limits  of 
them.  6  I  begin  to  suspect/  he  wrote,  ‘  that  I  have  no 
poetic  talent  whatever,  but  of  this,  too,  am  no  wise  abso¬ 
lutely  sure.  It  still  seems  as  if  a  whole  magazine  of  fac¬ 
ulty  lay  in  me  all  undeveloped ;  held  in  thraldom  by  the 
meanest  physical  and  economical  causes.’ 

One  discovery  came  on  him  as  a  startling  surprise. 

‘  On  the  whole  art  thou  not  among  the  vainest  of  living 
men  ?  At  bottom  among  the  very  vainest  f  Oh,  the  sorry, 
mad  ambitions  that  lurk  in  thee !  God  deliver  me  from 
vanity,  from  self-conceit,  the  first  sin  of  this  universe,  and 
the  last,  for  I  think  it  will  never  leave  us.’ 

Mrs.  Carlyle  continued  ill  and  out  of  spirits,  benefiting 
less  than  she  had  hoped  from  her  brother-in-law’s  skill  in 
medicine,  yet  contriving  now  and  then  to  sketch  in  her  hu¬ 
mourous  way  the  accidents  of  the  moorland  existence.  She 
had  an  unlucky  habit  of  dating  her  letters  only  by  the  day 
of  the  week,  or  sometimes  not  at  all,  and  as  those  to  Annan- 
dale  were  sent  often  by  private  hand,  there  is  no  post-mark 
to  make  good  her  shortcomings. 

The  following  letter  to  her  mother-in-law,  however,  is 
assigned  by  Carlyle  to  the  summer  of  1833.  Written  at 
what  time  it  may,  it  will  serve  as  a  genuine  picture  of 
Craigenputtock  life. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

Craigenputtodk. 

My  dear  Mother, — I  am  not  satisfied  it  should  be  even  so  much 
as  whispered  that  I  have  been  scared  from  Scotsbrig  by  the  grate 
reform ,  or  by  any  other  cause.  Surely  I  have  come  through  earth¬ 
quakes  enough  in  my  time  (and  with  an  honourable,  thorough 
bearing)  to  have  acquired  a  character  on  that  head  more  unim¬ 
peachable.  But,  to  be  sure,  the  calumny  was  no  invention  of 


Craig  eng?  utioeh  once  more. 


283 


yours,  but  of  younger  heads  less  eminent  for  charity.  It  was  the 
long  journey  I  boggled  at  on  the  last  occasion,  being  in  a  despair¬ 
ing  mood  at  the  time  with  want  of  sleep,  and  dearly  I  rued,  every 
hour  of  my  husband’s  absence,  that  I  had  not  accompanied  him, 
when,  if  I  must  needs  have  been  ill,  I  might  at  least  have  been  so 
without  molestation.  Another  time  we  will  do  better. 

Carlyle  is  toiling  away  at  the  new  article,'  and  though  by  no 
means  content  with  the  way  he  makes  (when  is  he  ever  content?), 
still,  as  you  used  to  say,  ‘wliat  is  down  will  not  jump  out  again.’ 
In  three  weeks  or  so  it  will  be  done  and  then  we  come.  I  am 
certainly  mended  since  you  were  here ;  but  ‘  deed  Mrs.  Carle’s 
maist  ashamed  to  say’t,’  a’s  still  weakly  and  takes  no  unusual  fa¬ 
tigue  without  suffering  for  it.  The  toil  and  trouble  I  had  about 
Betty2  did  me  great  mischief,  which  I  have  scarcely  yet  got  over; 
for  the  rest  that  explosion  has  had  no  unpleasant  consequences. 
The  woman  I  got  in  her  stead,  on  an  investigation  of  three  min¬ 
utes,  proves  to  be  quite  as  clever  a  servant  as .  she  was  whom  I  in¬ 
vestigated  for  the  space  of  three  half-years,  and  rode  as  I  compute 
some  hundred  miles  after.  Deaf  as  a  door  nail,  the  present  indi¬ 
vidual  has  nevertheless  conducted  herself  quite  satisfactorily,  ex¬ 
cept  that  Carlyle’s  silk  handkerchief  is  occasionally  in  requisition 
(oftener,  I  think,  than  there  is  any  visible  cause),  wiping  off  par¬ 
ticles  of  dust ;  and  once,  by  awful  oversight,  a  small  dead  mouse 
wTas  permitted  to  insinuate  itself  into  his  bowl  of  porridge.  We 
are  not  to  keep  her,  however,  because  of  her  deafness,  which  in 
any  other  place,  where  her  ears  would  be  called  into  vigorous  ac¬ 
tion,  would  make  her  the  mere  effigy  of  a  servant.  I  got  back 
the  black  button  who  was  here  when  you  came,  whom  I  know  to 
be  ignorant  as  a  sucking  child  of  almost  everything  I  require  her 
to  do,  but  whom  I  hope  to  find  honest,  diligent,  good  humoured, 
and  quick  in  the  up-take. 

I  had  a  very  kind  letter  from  Mrs.  Montagu  last  week,  reproach¬ 
ing  me  with  forgetfulness  of  her. 

We  have  not  heard  from  or  of  Jeffrey  for  a  very  long  time,  but 
he  will  certainly  write  on  Wednesday  to  acknowledge  the  repay¬ 
ment  of  his  debt,  which  is  a  great  load  off  our  minds.3 

1  ‘  Diamond  necklace. — T.  C.’ 

2  A  misconducted  maid. 

8  Carlyle’s  debt  to  Jeffrey  had  been  paid  the  summer  before.  Either,  there¬ 
fore,  Carlyle  was  mistaken  in  the  date  of  this  letter,  and  for  ‘  Diamond  Neck¬ 
lace’  we  should  read  Diderot;  or  there  had  been  some  further  debt  of  John 
Carlyle’s. 


284 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


My  mother  writes  in  great  alarm  about  cholera,  which  is  at  Pen- 
pont  within  three  miles  of  her  ;  three  persons  have  died.  I  have 
been  expecting  nothing  else,  and  my  dread  of  it  is  not  greater  for 
its  being  at  hand.  The  answer  to  all  such  terrors  is  simply  what 
Carlyle  said  a  year  ago  to  some  one  who  told  him  in  London, 
‘  Cholera  is  here  :  ’  ‘  When  is  death  not  here  ?  ’ 

The  next  letter  from  Mrs.  Carlyle  bears  a  clear  date  of 
its  own,  and  was  written  while  John  Carlyle  was  staying 
at  Craigenpnttock.  It  is  to  Eliza  Miles. 

Craigenputtock  :  July  15,  1833. 

My  dear  Eliza, — I  well  remember  the  fine  evening  last  year 
when  I  received  vonr  letter.  I  was  riding  alone  across  our  soli- 
tary  moor  when  I  met  my  boy  returning  from  the  post-office,  and 
took  it  from  him  and  opened  it  and  read  it  on  horseback,  too  anx¬ 
ious  for  news  about  you  to  keep  it  for  a  more  convenient  place. 
Had  anyone  predicted  to  me  then  that  the  good,  kind,  trustful  let¬ 
ter  was  to  lie  unanswered  for  a  whole  year,  I  should  have  treated 
such  prediction  as  an  injurious  calumny  which  there  was  not  the 
remotest  chance  of  my  justifying !  Alas !  and  i't  is  actually  so  ! 
For  a  whole  year  I  have  left  my  dear  little  friend  in  Ampton  Street 
to  form  what  theory  she  pleased  concerning  the  state  of  my  mind 
towards  her  ;  and  finally,  I  suppose,  to  set  me  down  for  heartless 
and  fickle,  and  dismiss  my  remembrance  with  a  sigh  ;  for  her  gen¬ 
tle,  affectionate  nature  is  incajjable,  I  believe,  of  more  indignant 
reproach.  And  yet,  Eliza  (it  was),  neither  the  one  thing  nor  the 
other.  I  am  capable  of  as  strong  attachment  as  yourself  (which 
is  saying  much),  and  if  I  do  not  abandon  myself  to  my  attachment 
as  you  do,  it  is  only  because  I  am  older,  have  had  my  dreams  of- 
tener  brought  into  collision  with  the  realities  of  life,  and  learnt 
from  the  heart-rending  jarring  of  such  collision  that  ‘  all  is  not 
gold  that  glitters,’  and  that  one’s  only  safe  dependence  is  in  one¬ 
self — I  mean  in  the  good  that  is  in  one.  As  little  am  I  fickle, 
which  I  must  beg  you  to  believe  on  trust ;  since  my  past  life, 
which  would  bear  me  out  in  the  boast,  is  all  unknown  to  you. 
What  is  it,  then,  you  will  ask,  that  makes  me  fail  in  so  simple  a 
duty  of  friendship  as  the  writing  of  a  letter?  It  is  sometimes 
sheer  indolence,  sometimes  sickness,  sometimes  procrastination. 
My  first  impulse,  after  reading  your  letter,  was  to  sit  down  and 
answer  it  by  the  very  next  post.  Then  I  thought  I  will  wait  the 
Lord  Advocate’s  return,  that  he  may  frank  it.  Then  troubles 


Craig enjmttoch  once  more. 


285 


thickened  round  me  :  my  mother’s  illness,  my  grandfather’s  death, 
gave  me  much  fatigue  of  body  and  mind.  That,  again,  increased 
to  cruel  height  my  own  persevering  ailments.  About  the  new  year 
we  removed  to  Edinburgh,  where  we  stayed  till  the  beginning  of 
May.  It  was  a  fully  more  unhealthy  winter  for  me  than  the  pre¬ 
vious  one  in  London.  I  wrote  to  no  one ;  had  enough  to  do  in 
striving  with  the  tempter  ever  present  with  me  in  the  shape  of 
headaches,  heartache,  and  all  kinds  of  aches,  that  I  might  not 
break  out  into  fiery  indignation  over  my  own  destiny  and  all  the 
earth’s.  Since  my  home  coming  I  have  improved  to  a  wonder,  and 
the  days  have  passed,  I  scarce  know  how,  in  the  pleasant  hopeless¬ 
ness  that  long-continued  pain  sometimes  leaves  behind. 

Nay,  I  must  not  wrong  myself.  I  have  not  been  quite  idle.  I 
have  made  a  gown  which  would  delight  Mrs.  Page,  it  looks  so  neat 
and  clean  ;  and  a  bonnet,  and  loaves  of  bread  innumerable.  At 
present  I  am  reading  Italian  most  of  the  day  with  my  medical 
brother-in-law,  who  is  home  at  present  from  Borne.  It  was  my 
husband  who,  for  all  his  frightening  you  with  some  books,  raised 
me  from  Ariosto  to-day,  with  the  chiding  words  that  it  would  be 
altogether  shameful  if  I  let  his  book  parcel  go  without  that  letter 
for  Miss  Miles,  which  I  had  talked  of  writing  these  six  months  back. 
.  .  .  .  How  is  your  health  ?  I  hope  you  do  not  go  often  to  Hr. 

Fisher’s,  or  at  all.  The  more  I  see  of  doctors  the  more  I  hold  by 
my  old  heresy  that  they  are  all  ‘  physicians  of  no  value.’  My 
brother-in-law  is  a  paragon  of  the  class,  but  he  is  so  by — in  as 
much  as  possible — undoctoring  himself.  He  told  me  yesterday, 
‘  Could  I  give  you  some  agreeable  occupation  to  fill  your  whole 
mind,  it  would  do  more  for  you  than  all  the  medicines  in  existence.’ 

I  wish  I  had  you  here  to  drink  new7  milk  and  ride  my  horse. 

We  are  at  home  now  for  the  summer  and  autumn,  most  likely 
for  the  winter  also.  We  think  of  France  next  summer,  and  moving 
in  the  interim  were  scarce  worth  while.  Surely  your  father  might 
find  some  one  travelling  to  Edinburgh  by  sea,  who  would  take 
charge  of  you.  It  is  the  easiest  and  cheapest  conveyance  possible. 

Write  to  me  all  that  you  are  thinking  and  wishing,  and  never 
doubt  my  kind  feelings  towards  you. 

Your  sincere  friend,  Jane  Carlyle. 

John  Carlyle  remained  at  Craigenputtock  for  a  month 
longer,  and  then  left  it  to  return  with  Lady  Clare  to  Italy. 
Carlyle  saw  him  off  in  the  Liverpool  steamer  from  Annan, 


286 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

and  went  back  to  solitude  and  work.  He  says  that  lie  was 
invariably  sick  and  miserable  before  he  could  write  to  any 
real  purpose.  His  first  attempt  at  the  Diamond  Hecklace 
had  failed,  and  he  had  laid  it  aside.  The  entries  in  his 
journal  show  more  than  usual  despondency. 

Extracts  from  Journal. 

August  24. — So  nowall  this  racketing  and  riding  has  ended,  and 
I  am  left  here  the  solitariest,  stranded,  most  helpless  creature  that 
I  have  been  for  many  years.  Months  of  suffering  and  painful  in¬ 
dolence  I  see  before  me  ;  for  in  much  I  am  wrong ,  and  till  it  is 
righted,  or  on  the  way  to  being  so,  I  cannot  help  myself.  Nobody 
asks  me  to  work  at  articles,  and  as  need  does  not  drive  me  to  do  it 
for  a  while,  I  have  no  call  in  that  direction.  The  thing  I  want  to 
write  is  quite  other  than  an  article.  Happily  (this  is  probably  my 
greatest  happiness),  the  chief  desire  of  my  mind  has  again  be¬ 
come  to  write  a  masterpiece,  let  it  be  acknowledged  as  such  or  not 
acknowledged.  The  idea  of  the  universe  struggles  dark  and  pain¬ 
ful  in  me,  which  I  must  deliver  out  of  me  or  be  wretched.  But, 
then,  Howt  ?  How  ?  We  cannot  think  of  changing  our  abode  at 
present  ;  indeed,  had  we  even  the  necessary  funds  for  living  in 
London  itself,  what  better  were  it  ?  and  I  in  such  a  want,  in  such  a 
mood  !  Thyself  only  art  to  blame.  Take  thyself  vigorously  to 
task.  Cast  out  the  unclean  thing  from  thee,  or  go  deeper  and 
deeper  hellward  with  it. 

For  the  last  year  my  faith  has  lain  under  a  most  sad  eclipse  ;  I 
have  been  a  considerably  worse  man  than  before. 

At  this  moment  I  write  only  in  treble ,  of  a  situation,  of  a  set  of 
feelings  that  longs  to  express  itself  in  the  voice  of  thunder.  Be 
still !  Be  still ! 

In  all  times  there  is  a  word  which,  spoken  to  men,  to  the  actual 
generation  of  men,  would  thrill  their  inmost  soul.  But  the  way 
to  find  that  word  ?  The  way  to  speak  it  when  found  ?  Opus  est 
consulto  with  a  vengeance. 

On  the  whole  it  is  good,  it  is  absolutely  needful  for  one  to  be 
humbled  and  prostrated,  and  thrown  among  the  pots  from  time  to 
time.  Life  is  a  school :  we  are  perverse  scholars  to  the  last  and 
require  the  rod. 

Above  me,  as  I  thought  last  night  in  going  to  sleep,  is  the  mute 
Immensity ;  Eternity  is  behind  and  before.  What  are  all  the  cares 


Visit  from  Emerson. 


287 


of  this  short  little  Platform  of  existence  that  they  should  give 
thee  Pain?  But  on  the  whole  man  is  such  a  Dualism,  and  runs 
himself  into  contradiction,  the  second  step  he  makes  from  the 
beaten  road  of  the  practical.  I  may  lament  meanwhile  that  (for 
want  of  symbols  ?)  those  grand  verities  (the  reallest  of  the  real) 
Infinitude,  Eternity,  should  have  so  faded  from  the  view,  from  the 
grasp,  of  the  most  earnest,  and  left  the  task  of  right  living  a  prob¬ 
lem  harder  than  ever. 

Have  to  walk  down  to  the  smithy  (my  dame  riding)  and  bring 
up  a  gig  :  thus  are  the  high  and  the  low  mingled.  I  read  books 
enough,  but  they  are  worthless  and  their  effect  worthless.  Henry’s 
Britain,  Poor  Law  Commission,  Paris  and  Histor.  Scenes,  &c.,  &c., 
all  these  are  naught  or  nearly  so ;  errand  ‘  for  the  gig  is  better 
work  for  me.  At  any  rate  it  is  work ;  so  to  it.’ 

The  next  entry  in  the  Journal  is  in  another  handwrit¬ 
ing.  It  is  merely  a  name — ‘Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.’ 

The  Carlyles  were  sitting  alone  at  dinner  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon  at  the  end  of  August  when  a  Dumfries  carriage 
drove  to  the  door,  and  there  stepped  out  of  it  a  young 
American  then  unknown  to  fame,  but  whose  influence  in 
his  own  country  equals  that  of  Carlyle  in  ours,  and  whose 
name  stands  connected  with  his  wherever  the  English  lan¬ 
guage  is  spoken..  Emerson,  the  younger  of  the  two,  had 
just  broken  his  Unitarian  fetters,  and  was  looking  out  and 
round  him  like  a  young  eagle  longing  for  light  lie  had 
read  Carlyle’s  articles  and  had  discerned  with  the  instinct 
of  genius  that  here  was  a  voice  speaking  real  and  fiery 
convictions,  and  no  longer  echoes  and  conventionalisms. 
He  had  come  to  Europe  to  study  its  social  and  spiritual 
phenomena ;  and  to  the  young  Emerson,  as  to  the  old 
Goethe,  the  most  important  of  them  appeared  to  be  Car¬ 
lyle.  He  had  obtained  an  introduction  to  him  from  John 
Mill,  in  London,  armed  with  which  he  had  come  off  to 
Scotland.  Mill  had  prepared  Carlyle  for  His  possible  ap¬ 
pearance  not  very  favourably,  and  perhaps  recognised  in 
after  years  the  fallibility  of  liis  judgment.  Carlyle  made 
no  such  mistake.  The  fact  itself  of  a  young  American 


288 


life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


having  been  so  affected  by  his  writings  as  to  have  sought 
him  out  in  the  Dun  score  moors,  was  a  homage  of  the  kind 
which  he  could  especially  value  and  appreciate.  The  ac¬ 
quaintance  then  begun  to  their  mutual  pleasure  ripened 
into  a  deep  friendship,  which  has  remained  unclouded  in 
spite  of  wide  divergences  of  opinion  throughout  their 
working  lives,  aud  continues  warm  as  ever,  at  the  moment 
when  I  am  writing  these  words  (June  27,  1880),  when  the 
labours  of  both  of  them  are  over,  and  they  wait  in  age  and 
infirmity  to  be  called  away  from  a  world  to  which  they 
have  given  freely  all  that  they  had  to  give. 

Emerson’s  visit  at  this  moment  is  particularly  welcome, 
since  it  gives  the  only  sketch  we  have  of  Carlyle’s  life  at 
Craigenputtock  as  it  was  seen  by  others.1 

From  Edinburgh,  writes  Emerson,  I  went  to  the  Highlands,  and 
on  my  return  I  came  from  Glasgow  to  Dumfries,  and  being  intent 
on  delivering  a  letter  which  I  had  brought  from  Rome,2  inquired 
for  Craigenputtock.  It  was  a  farm  in  Nithsdale,  in  the  parish  of 
Dunscore,  sixteen  miles  distant.  No  public  coach  passed  near  it, 
so  I  took  a  private  carriage  from  the  inn.  I  found  the  house  amid 
desolate  heathery  hills,  where  the  lonely  scholar  nourished  his 
mighty  heart.  Carlyle  was  a  man  from  his  youth,  an  author  who 
did  not  need  to  hide  from  his  readers,  and  as  absolute  a  man  of 
the  world,  unknown  and  exiled  on  that  hill  farm,  as  if  holding  on 
liis  own  terms  what  is  best  in  London.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt, 
with  a  cliff-like  brow,  and  holding  his  extraordinary  powers  of 
conversation  in  easy  command  ;  clinging  to  his  northern  accent 
with  evident  relish  ;  full  of  lively  anecdote,  and  with  a  streaming 
humour  which  floated  everything  he  looked  upon.  His  talk,  play¬ 
fully  exalting  the  most  familiar  objects,  put  the  companion  at  once 
into  an  acquaintance  with  his  Lars  and  Lemurs,  and  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  learn  what  was  predestined  to  be  a  pretty  mythology. 
Few  were  the  objects  and  lonely  the  man,  ‘  not  a  person  to  sjoeak 
to  within  sixteen  miles  except  the  minister  of  Dunscore  ;  ’  so  that 
books  inevitably  made  his  topics. 

1  English  Traits ,  Emerson’s  Prose  Works,  vol.  ii.  p.  165. 

2  Prom  Gustave  d’Eichthel.  Emerson  does  not  mention  the  note  from  Mill. 
Perhaps  their  mutual  impressions  were  not  dissimilar. 


Visit  from  Emerson. 


2S9 


He  had  names  of  his  own  for  all  the  matters  familiar  to  his  dis¬ 
course.  ‘Blackwood’s  ’  was  the  *  Sand  Magazine.’  Fraser’s  nearer 
approach  to  possibility  of  life  was  the  ‘  Mud  Magazine  ;  ’  a  piece 
of  road  near  by,  that  marked  some  failed  enterprise  was  ‘  the 
Grave  of  the  last  Sixpence.’  When  too  much  praise  of  any  genius 
annoyed  him,  he  professed  largely  to  admire  the  talent  shown  by 
his  pig.  He  had  spent  much  time  and  contrivance  in  confining 
the  poor  beast  to  one  enclosure  in  his  pen  ;  but  pig,  by  great 
strokes  of  judgment,  had  found  out  how  to  let  a  board  down,  and 
had  foiled  him.  For  all  that,  he  still  thought  man  the  most  plas¬ 
tic  little  fellow  in  the  planet,  and  he  liked  Nero’s  death,  Qualis 
artifex pereo  !  better  than  most  history.  He  worships  a  man  that 
will  manifest  any  truth  to  him.  At  one  time  he  had  inquired  and 
read  a  good  deal  about  America.  Landor’s  principle  was  mere 
rebellion,  and  that  he  feared  was  the  American  principle.  The 
best  thing  he  knew  of  that  country  was  that  in  it  a  man  can  have 
meat  for  his  labour.  He  had  read  in  Stewart’s  book  that  when  he 
inquired  in  a  New  York  hotel  for  the  Boots,  he  had  been  shown 
across  the  street,  and  had  found  Mungo  in  his  own  house  dining 
on  roast  turkey. 

We  talked  of  books.  Plato  he  does  not  read,  and  he  disparaged 
Socrates ;  and,  when  pressed,  persisted  in  making  Mirabeau  a 
hero.  Gibbon  he  called  the  splendid  bridge  from  the  old  world 
to  the  new.  His  own  reading  had  been  multifarious.  4  Tristram 
Shandy  ’  was  one  of  his  first  books  after  ‘  Robinson  Crusoe,’  and 
‘  Robertson’s  America,’  an  early  favourite.  4  Rousseau’s  Confes¬ 
sions  ’  had  discovered  to  him  that  he  was  not  a  dunce  ;  and  it  was 
now  ten  years  since  he  had  learned  German  by  the  advice  of  a  man 
who  told  him  he  would  find  in  that  language  what  he  wanted. 

He  took  despairing  or  satirical  views  of  literature  at  this  mo¬ 
ment  ;  recounted  the  incredible  sums  paid  in  one  year  by  the 
great  booksellers  for  puffing.  Hence  it  comes  that  no  newspaper 
is  trusted  now,  no  books  are  bought,  and  the  booksellers  are  on 
the  eve  of  bankruptcy. 

He  still  returned  to  English  pauperism,  the  crowded  country, 
the  selfish  abdication  by  public  men  of  all  that  public  persons 
should  perform.  Government  should  direct  poor  men  what  to  do. 
‘Poor  Irish  folk  come  wandering  over  these  moors  ;  my  dame,’  he 
said,  ‘  makes  it  a  rule  to  give  to  every  son  of  Adam  bread  to  eat, 
and  supplies  his  wants  to  the  next  house.  But  here  are  thousands 
of  acres  which  might  give  them  all  meat,  and  nobody  to  bid  these 

Vol.  II.— 19 


290 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


poor  Irish  go  to  the  moor  and  till  it.  They  burned  the  stacks, 
and  so  found  a  way  to  force  the  rich  people  to  attend  to  them.’ 

We  went  out  to  walk  over  long  hills,  and  looked  at  Criffel,  then 
without  his  cap,  and  down  into  Wordsworth’s  country.  There  we 
sat  down  and  talked  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  It  was  not 
Carlyle’s  fault  that  we  talked  on  that  topic,  for  he  has  the  natural 
disinclination  of  every  nimble  spirit  to  bruise  itself  against  walls, 
and  did  not  like  to  place  himself  where  no  step  can  be  taken. 
But  he  was  honest  and  true,  and  cognisant  of  the  subtle  links  that 
bind  ages  together,  and  saw  how  every  event  affects  all  the  future. 

‘  Christ  died  on  the  tree :  that  built  Dunscore  kirk  yonder  ;  that 
brought  you  and  me  together.  Time  has  only  a  relative  existence.’ 

He  was  already  turning  his  eyes  towards  London  with  a  scholar’s 
appreciation.  London  is  the  heart  of  the  world,  he  said,  wonder¬ 
ful  only  from  the  mass  of  human  beings.  He  liked  the  huge 
machine.  Each  keeps  its  own  round.  The  baker’s  boy  brings 
muffins  to  the  window  at  a  fixed  hour  every  day,  and  that  is  all 
the  Londoner  knows  or  wishes  to  know  on  the  subject.  But  it 
turned  out  good  men.  He  named  certain  individuals,  especially 
one  man  of  letters,  his  friend,  the  best  mind  he  knew,  whom 
London  had  well  served. 

Emerson  stayed  for  a  night  and  was  gone  in  the  morn¬ 
ing,  seeking  other  notabilities.  Carlyle  liked  him  well. 
Two  days  later  he  writes  to  his  mother  : — 

Three  little  happinesses  have  befallen  us  :  first,  a  piano  tuner, 
procured  for  five  shillings  and  sixpence,  has  been  here,  entirely 
reforming  the  piano,  so  that  I  can  hear  a  little  music  now,  which 
does  me  no  little  good.  Secondly,  Major  Irving  of  Grib  ton,  who 
used  at  this  season  of  the  year  to  live  and  shoot  at  Craigenvey, 
came  in  one  day  to  us,  and  after  some  clatter  offered  us  a  rent  of 
five  pounds  for  the  right  to  shoot  here,  and  even  tabled  the  cash 
that  moment,  and  would  not  pocket  it  again.  Money  easilier  won 
never  sate  in  my  pocket ;  money  for  delivering  us  from  a  great  nui¬ 
sance,  for  now  I  will  tell  every  gunner  applicant,  4 1  cannot,  sir  ;  it 
is  let.’  Our  third  happiness  was  the  arrival  of  a  certain  young  un¬ 
known  friend,  named  Emerson,  from  Boston,  in  the  United  States, 
who  turned  aside  so  far  from  his  British,  French,  and  Italian  travels 
to  see  me  here  !  He  had  an  introduction  from  Mill  and  a  French¬ 
man  (Baron  d’Eichthal’s  nephew),  whom  John  knew  at  B.ome.  Of 
course  we  could  do  no  other  than  welcome  him  ;  the  rather  as  he 


Visit  from  Emerson. 


291 


seemed  to  be  one  of  the  most  lovable  creatures  in  himself  we  had 
ever  looked  on.  He  stayed  till  next  day  with  us,  and  talked  and 
heard  talk  to  his  heart’s  content,  and  left  us  all  really  sad  to 
part  with  him.  Jane  says  it  is  the  first  journey  since  Noah’s  Del¬ 
uge  undertaken  to  Craigenputtock  for  such  a  purpose.  In  any 
case  we  had  a  cheerful  day  from  it,  and  ought  to  be  thankful. 

During  these  months,  the  autumn  of  1833  and  the  be¬ 
ginning  of  the  year  which  followed,  a  close  correspond¬ 
ence  was  maintained  between  Carlyle  and  John  Mill. 
Carlyle’s  part  of  it  I  have  not  seen,  but  on  both  sides  the 
letters  must  have  been  of  the  deepest  interest.  Thinly 
sprinkled  with  information  about  common  friends,  they 
related  almost  entirely  to  the  deepest  questions  which  con¬ 
cern  humanity  ;  and  the  letters  of  Mill  are  remarkable 
for  simplicity,  humility,  and  the  most  disinterested  desire 
for  truth.  He  had  much  to  learn  about  Carlyle  ;  he  was 
not  quick  to  understand  character,  and  was  distressed  to 
find,  as  their  communications  became  more  intimate,  how 
widely  their  views  were  divided.  He  had  been  bred  a 
utilitarian.  He  had  been  taught  that  virtue  led  necessarily 
to  happiness,  and  was  perplexed  at  Carlyle’s  insistence  on 
Entsagen  (renunciation  of  personal  happiness)  as  essential 
to  noble  action.  He  had  been  surprised  that  Carlyle  liked 
Emerson,  who  had  appeared  to  him  perhaps  a  visionary. 
Carlyle,  intending  to  write  another  book,  was  hesitating  be¬ 
tween  a  life  of  John  Knox  and  the  French  Revolution. 
Either  subject  would  give  him  the  opportunity,  which  he 
wanted,  of  expressing  his  spiritual  convictions.  His  in¬ 
clination  at  this  moment  was  towards  the  history  of  his 
own  country,  and  he  had  recommended  Mill  to  write  on 
the  Revolution.  Mill  felt  that  it  would  be  difficult  if  not 
impossible  for  him,  without  expressing  completely  his 
views  on  Christianity,  which  the  condition  of  public  feel¬ 
ing  in  England  would  not  allow  him  to  do.  He  spoke 
tenderly  and  reverently  of  the  personal  character  of  the 


292 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


Founder  of  Christianity,  and  on  this  part  of  the  subject 
he  wrote  as  if  he  was  confident  that  Carlyle  agreed  with 
him.  But,  below  the  truth  of  any  particular  religion, 
there  lay  the  harder  problem  of  the  existence  and  provi¬ 
dence  of  God,  and  here  it  seemed  that  Carlyle  had  a  posi¬ 
tive  faith,  while  Mill  had  no  more  than  a  sense  of  proba¬ 
bility.  Carlyle  admitted  that  so  far  as  external  evidence 
went,  the  Being  of  God  was  a  supposition  inadequately 
proved.  The  grounds  of  certainty  which  Carlyle  found  in 
himself,  Mill,  much  as  he  desired  to  share  Carlyle’s  belief, 
confessed  that  he  was  unable  to  recognise.  So  again  with 
the  soul.  There  was  no  proof  that  it  perished  with  the 
body,  but  again  there  was  no  proof  that  it  did  not.  Duty 
was  the  deepest  of  all  realities,  but  the  origin  of  duty,  for 
all  Mill  could  tell,  might  be  the  tendency  of  right  action 
to  promote  the  general  happiness  of  mankind.  Such  gen¬ 
eral  happiness  doubtless  could  best  be  promoted  by  each 
person  developing  his  own  powers.  Carlyle  insisted  that 
every  man  had  a  special  task  assigned  to  him,  which  it 
was  his  business  to  discover ;  but  the  question  remained, 
by  whom  and  how  the  task  was  assigned;  and  the  truth 
might  only  be  that  men  in  fact  were  born  with  various 
qualities,  and  that  the  general  good  wras  most  effectually 
promoted  by  the  special  cultivation  of  those  qualities. 

But  I  will  not  attempt  to  pursue  further  so  interesting 
an  exposition  of  Mill’s  views  when  I  am  forbidden  to  use 
his  own  language,  and  must  express  his  meaning  in  a  cir¬ 
cuitous  paraphrase.  The  letters  themselves  may  perhaps 
be  published  hereafter  by  those  to  whom  they  belong.  I 
have  alluded  to  the  correspondence  only  because  it  turned 
the  balance  in  Carlyle’s  mind,  sent  him  immediately  back 
again  to  Marie  Antoinette  and  the  Diamond  Necklace,  and 
decided  for  him  that  he  should  himself  undertake  the  work 
which  wTas  to  make  his  name  famous. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


A.D.  1833.  dET.  38. 

When  John  Carlyle  left  Craigenputtock  to  rejoin  Lady 
Clare,  the  parting  between  the  brothers  had  been  excep¬ 
tionally  sad.  The  popularity  with  Review  editors  which 
had  followed  Carlyle’s  appearance  in  London  was  as  brief 
as  it  had  been  sudden.  His  haughty  tone  towards  them, 
and  his  theory  of  4  the  Dogs’  Carrion  Cart,’  as  a  descrip¬ 
tion  of  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  could  not  have  recom¬ 
mended  him  to  their  favour.  The  article  on  Goethe  was 
received  unfavourably,  Cochrane  said  with  unqualified,  dis¬ 
approval.  ‘  Sartor’  when  it  began  to  appear  in  c  Fraser’ 
piecemeal,  met  a  still  harder  judgment.  Ho  one  could  tell 
what  to  make  of  it.  The  writer  was  considered  a  literary 
maniac,  and  the  unlucky  editor  was  dreading  the  ruin  of 
his  magazine.  The  brothers  had  doubtless  talked  earnestlv 
enough  of  the  threatening  prospect.  John,  who  owed  all 
that  he  had  and  was  to  his  brother’s  care  of  him,  and  was 
in  prosperous  circumstances,  was  leaving  that  brother  to 
loneliness  and  depression,  and  to  a  future  on  which  no 
light  was  breaking  anywhere.  Carlyle  felt  more  for  John 
than  for  himself,  and  his  first  effort  after  J ohn  was  gone 
was  to  comfort  him. 

For  me  and  my  moorland  loneliness  (he  wrote  on  the  27th  of 
August)  never  let  it  settle  in  your  heart.  I  feel  assured  from  of 
old  that  the  only  true  enemy  I  have  to  struggle  with  is  the  unrea¬ 
son  within  myself.  If  I  have  given  such  things  harbour  within 
me,  I  must  with  pain  cast  them  out  again.  Still,  then,  still ! 
Light  will  arise  for  my  outward  path,  too  ;  were  my  inward  light 


294 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


once  clear  again,  and  the  world  with  all  its  tribulations  will  lie 
under  my  feet.  ‘  Be  of  good  cheer,  I  have  overcome  the  world  :  ’ 
so  said  the  wisest  man,  when  what  was  his  overcoming  ?  Poverty, 
despite,  forsakenness,  and  the  near  prospect  of  an  accursed  Cross. 
‘  Be  of  good  cheer  ;  I  have  overcome  the  world.’  These  words  on 
the  streets  of  Edinburgh  last  winter  almost  brought  tears  into  my 
eyes.  But,  on  the  whole,  quarrel  not  with  my  deliberate  feeling 
that  this  wilderness  is  no  wholesome  abode  for  me  ;  that  it  is  my 
duty  to  strive,  with  all  industry,  energy,  and  cheerful  deterhiina- 
tion  to  change  it  for  one  less  solitary.  Consider  also  that  I  am 
far  past  the  years  for  headlong  changes,  and  will  not  rush  out  to 
the  warfare  without  a  plan  and  munitions  of  war.  Nay,  for  a  time 
my  first  duty  must  be  composure  ;  the  settling  of  innumerable 
things  that  are  at  sixes  and  sevens  within  myself. 

I  am  writing  nothing  yet,  but  am  not  altogether  idle.  Depend 
upon  it,  I  shall  pass  the  winter  here  far  more  happily  than  you  ex¬ 
pect.  So  fear  not  for  me,  my  dear  brother  ;  continue  to  hope  of 
me  that  the  work  given  me  ‘  to  do  may  be  done.’ 

Mrs.  Carlyle,  wlio  was  still  ailing,  was  earned  off  by  her 
mother  a  few  days  later,  in  the  hope  that  change  of  air 
and  relief  from  household  work  might  be  of  use  to  her,  and 
was  taking  a  tour  through  the  hills  about  Moffat.  Carlyle 
himself  was  left  in  utter  solitude  at  Craigenputtock.  How 
he  passed  one  day  of  it  he  tells  in  a  letter,  which  he  sent 
after  his  Goody  Coadjutor,  as  he  called  her,  soon  after  she 
had  left  him. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Moffat. 

September  7. 

Yesterday  mornning,  while  the  bright  sun  was  welcoming  you  (I 
hope  without  headache)  to  the  watering-place,  I  stirred  little,  yet 
was  not  wholly  idle.  I  adjusted  various  small  matters,  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  poor  Mrs.  Swan1 — a  long  one,  yet  the  lamest  utter¬ 
ance  of  my  feeling  on  that  sad  matter,  for  I  was  stupid  and  could 
not  even  feel  my  feeling  rightly,  much  less  think  it.  After  dinner 
I  wept  to  walk.  Sitting  with  my  back  at  the  big  stone  in  the 
*  Sixpence,’  looking  out  over  the  void  moor,  I  hear  a  little  squeak 
of  glad,  unmelodious  singing  :  and  presently  Midge,  in  red  jacket 

1  Of  Kirkcaldy.  Her  husband,  ‘  Provost  Swan,’  who  had  been  one  of  Car¬ 
lyle’s  friends  in  the  old  days,  was  just  dead. 


A  Day  at  Craig enjyuttoch. 


295 


with  a  bundle,  heaves  in  sight,  clashes  back  astonished  into  a  kind 
of  minuet,  answers  my  questions  with  a  ‘  Sur !  ’  and  then  to  the 
repetition  of  it,  ‘  How  they  were  all  at  the  hut  ?  ’  chirps  out  with 
the  strangest  new  old-woman’s  tone,  ‘  Oh,  bravely  !  ’  Poor  little 
savage  !  I  met  her  again  in  the  way  back  (she  had  been  with 
Nancy’s  gown,  I  suppose),  and  did  not  kill  her  with  my  eyes,  but 
let  her  shy  past  me.  The  red  Midge  in  that  vacant  wilderness 
might  have  given  Wordsworth  a  sonnet.  All  day,  I  must  remark, 
Nancy  had  been  busy  as  a  town  taken  by  storm,  and,  indeed,  still 
is,  though  I  know  not  with  what  :  most  probably  washing,  I  think ; 
for  yesterday  there  appeared  once  a  barrow  with*  something  like 
clothes-baskets,  and  to-day  white  sheets  hang  triumphantly  on  the 
rope.  She  gets  me  all  my  necessaries  quite  punctually  ;  and  as 
fit,  no  questions  are  asked.  Notybene ,  after  a  long  effort  I  remem¬ 
bered  the  shelling  of  your  peas,  and  told  her  of  it.  After  tea,  I 
did — what  think  you  ? — composed  some  beautiful  doggerel  on  the 
Linn  of  Crichope  and  fair  Ludovina  (I  hope  she  is  fair)  :  quite  a 
jewel  of  a  piece,  for  which,  however,  there  is  no  room  on  this 
page.1 

Of  the  present  Saturday  the  grandest  event  might  be  the  fol¬ 
lowing  :  Sickish,  with  little  work,  I  took  my  walk  before  dinner. 
Reaching  home  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  I  met  a  pig  apparently 

1  Room  was  found  for  it  on  the  margin  of  the  lettter  : — 

Criciiope  Linn. 

(Loquitur  genius  loci.) 

Cloistered  vault  of  living  rocks, 

Here  have  I  my  darksome  dwelling  ; 

Working,  sing  to  stones  and  stocks, 

Where  beneath  my  waves  go  welling. 

Beams  flood-borne  athwart  me  cast 
Arches  see,  and  aisles  moist  gleaming  ; 

Sounds  for  aye  my  organ  blast, 

Grim  cathedral,  shaped  in  dreaming. 

Once  a  Lake,  and  next  a  Linn, 

Still  my  course  sinks  deeper  ;  boring 

Cleft  far  up  where  rays  steal  in, 

That  as  ‘  Gullet ’  once  was  roaring. 

For  three  thousand  years  or  more 

Savage  I,  none  praised  or  blamed  me ; 

Maiden’s  hand  unbolts  my  door — 

Look  of  loveliness  hath  tamed  me. 


296 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

in  a  state  of  distraction  (grating  harsh  thunder,  its  lugs  over  its 
shoulders  distractedly  flow),  pursued  by  Nancy  in  the  same  !  The 
sow  has  not  so  much  broken  the  gate  as  rent  it,  the  side  posts  of 
it,  into  two,  and  left  it  hanging  ‘  like  a  bundle  of  flails.’  After 
dinner  I,  with  a  sublime  patience,  borrow  ‘  Joseph’s  wimble,’  and 
under  ten  thousand  midge  bites,  wTitli  tools  blunt  as  a  wild  In¬ 
dian’s,  actually  construct  a  brand-new,  most  improved  gate,  which 
you  shall  look  upon  not  without  admiration — if  it  swing  so  long. 
I  sent  a  new  message  to  the  joiner,  but  do  not  in  the  least  expect 
him.  I  had  meant  to  excerpt  from  Bayle  and  such  like,  but  the 
Fates,  you  see,  had  mostly  ordered  it  otherwise.  Night  found  me, 
like  Basil  Montagu,  ‘  at  my  post,’  namely,  at  my  gate  post,  and 
nigh  done  with  it.  I  had  tea  and  Goody’s  letter,  and  so  here  we 
are. 

But  now,  dear  wifie,  it  is  fit  I  turn  a  moment  to  thy  side.  Is 
my  little  Janekin  getting  any  sleep  in  that  unknown  cabin  ?  Is 
she  enjoying  aught,  hoping  aught,  except  the  end  of  it,  which  is, 
and  should  be,  one  of  her  hopes?  I  shall  learn  ‘all’  on  Wednes¬ 
day  (for  she  will  write,  as  I  do) ;  and  then  ‘  all  and  everything. 
When  ?  I  am  patient  as  possible  hitherto,  and  my  patience  will 
stretch  if  I  know  that  you  enjoy  yourself,  still  more  that  your 
health  seems  to  profit.  Take  a  little  amusement,  dear  Goody,  if 
thou  canst  get  it.  God  knows  little  comes  to  thee  with  me,  and 
thou  art  right  patient  under  it.  But,  courage,  dearest !  I  swear 
better  days  are  coming,  shall  come.  The  accursed,  baleful  cloud 
that1  has  hung  over  my  existence  must  (I  feel  it)  dissipate,  and  let 
in  the  sun  which  shines  on  all.  It  must,  I  say.  What  is  it  but  a 


Maiden  mild,  this  level  path 
Emblem  is  of  her  bright  being  ; 

Long  through  discord,  darkness,  scath, 
Goes  she  helping,  ruling,  freeing. 

Thank  her,  wanderer,  as  thou  now 
Gazest  safe  through  gloom  so  dreary : 

Rough  things  plain  make  likewise  thou. 
And  of  well-doing  be  not  weary. 

‘Gullet  ’  one  day  cleft  shalt  be, 

Crichope  cave  have  new  sunk  story  ; 

Thousand  years  away  shall  flee — 

Flees  not  goodness  or  its  glory. 

‘  Ach  Gott,  wie  lahm,  wie  kruppel-lahm  !  ’ 


Alone  at  CraigeivputtocJc. 


297 


cloud,  properly  a  shadow,  a  chimera  ?  Oh,  Jeannie  !  But  enough. 
If  I  am  happy,  art  not  thou,  also,  happy  in  my  happiness?  Hope 
all  things,  dearest,  and  be  true  to  me  still,  as  thou  art.  And  so 
felicissima  Notte  !  Sleep  well,  for  it  is  now  midnight,  and  dream 
of  me  if  thou  canst.  With  best  love  to  mother  and  cousinkin, 

Ever  thy  own  husband, 

T.  Carlyle. 


To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig . 

Craigenputtock  :  September  20,  1833. 

My  dear  Mother, — Jack,  as  you  will  find,  has  got  safe  over  the 
water,  and  begins  his  expedition  as  prosperously  as  could  be  de¬ 
sired.  He  goes  into  Germany,  and  then  up  the  Rhine,  towards 
the  Swiss  Alps,  where  that  river  springs,  a  beautiful  road.  Most 
likely,  he  will  pass  through  Constance,  where  our  noble  Huss  tes¬ 
tified  to  the  death.  He  may  tell  us  what  he  says  to  the  ‘  scarlet 
woman,’  and  her  abominations  there !  You  and  I  shall  not  be  with 
him  to  lecture  from  that  text ;  but  his  own  thoughts  (for  all  that 
he  talks  so)  will  do  it.  The  dumb  ashes  of  Huss  speak  louder 
than  a  thousand  sermons.  .  .  .  But  I  must  tell  you  something 
of  myself :  for  I  know  many  a  morning,  my  dear  mother,  you 
4  come  in  by  me  ’  in  your  rambles  through  the  world  after  those 
precious  to  you.  If  you  had  eyes  to  see  on  these  occasions  you 
would  find  everything  quite  tolerable  here.  I  have  been  rather 
busy ,  though  the  fruit  of  my  work  is  rather  inward,  and  has  little 
to  say  for  itself.  I  have  yet  hardly  put  pen  to  paper ;  but  foresee 
that  there  is  a  time  coming.  All  my  griefs,  I  can  better  and  better 
see,  lie  in  good  measure  at  my  own  door :  were  I  right  in  my  own 
heart ,  nothing  else  would  be  far  wrong  with  me.  This,  as  you  well 
understand,  is  true  of  every  mortal,  and  I  advise  all  that  hear  me 
to  believe  it,  and  to  lay  it  practically  to  their  own  case.  On  the 
whole,  I  am  promising  to  occupy  myself  more  wholesomely,  and 
to  be  happier  here  all  winter  than  I  have  been  of  late.  Be  ‘  dili¬ 
gent  in  well-doing ;  ’  that  is  the  only  secret  for  happiness  any¬ 
where  :  not  a  universal  one  or  infallible  (so  long  as  we  continue 
on  earth),  yet  far  the  best  we  have. 

For  the  last  two  weeks  Jane  has  been  away  from  me  at  Moffat. 
I  led  the  loneliest  life,  I  suppose,  of  any  human  creature  in  the 
king’s  dominions,  yet  managed  wonderfully,  by  keeping  myself 
continually  at  work.  I  clomb  to  the  hill  top  on  Sabbath  day  for 
my  walk  and  saw  Burnswark,  and  fancied  you  all  at  the  sermon 


298 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

close  by.  On  Monday  morning  I  went  over  to  Templand,  and 
found  my  bit  wifie  altogether  defaite,  not  a  whit  better,  but  worse, 
of  Moffat  and  its  baths,  and  declaring  she  would  not  leave  me  so 
soon  again  in  a  hurry. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

October  1,  1833. 

If  you  ask  what  I  have  performed  and  accomplished  for  myself, 
the  answer  might  look  rather  meagre.  I  have  not  yet  put  pen  to 
paper.  The  new  chapter  of  my  history  as  yet  lies  all  too  confused. 
I  look  round  on  innumerable  fluctuating  masses :  can  begin  to 
build  no  edifice  from  them.  However,  my  mind  is  not  empty, 
which  is  the  most  intolerable  state.  I  think  occasionally  with 
energy ;  I  read  a  good  deal ;  I  wait,  not  without  hope.  What 
other  can  I  do  ?  Looking  back  over  the  last  seven  years,  I  wonder 
at  myself ;  looking  forward,  were  there  not  a  fund  of  tragical  in¬ 
difference  in  me,  I  could  lose  head.  The  economical  outlook  is 
so  complex,  the  spiritual  no  less.  Alas  !  the  thing  I  want  to  do  is 
precisely  the  thing  I  cannot  do.  My  mind  would  so  fain  deliver 
itself  adequately  of  that  ‘  Divine  idea  of  the  world,’  and  only  in 
quite  inadequate  approximation  is  such  deliverance  possible.  I 
want  to  write  what  Teufelsdrockh  calls  a  story  of  the  Time-Hat,  to 
show  forth  to  the  men  of  these  days  that  they  also  live  in  the  age 
of  miracles  !  We  shall  see.  Meanwhile,  one  of  the  subjects  that 
engages  me  most  is  the  French  Devolution,  which,  indeed,  for  us 
is  the  subject  of  subjects.  My  chief  errand  to  Paris  were  freer  in¬ 
quiry  into  this.1  One  day,  if  this  mood  continues,  I  may  have 
something  of  my  own  to  say  on  it.  But  to  stick  nearer  home.  I 
have  as  good  as  engaged  with  myself  not  to  go  even  to  Scotsbrig 
till  I  have  written  something,  with  which  view  partly,  on  Satur¬ 
day  last,  I  determined  on  two  things  I  could  write  about  (there 
are  twenty  others  if  one  had  any  vehicles)  :  the  first,  ‘  A  History 
of  the  Diamond  Necklace ;  ’  the  next,  an  ‘  Essay  on  the  Saint 
Simonians.’  I  even  wrote  off  to  Cochrane  as  diplomatically  as  I 
could,  to  ask  whether  they  would  suit  him.  Be  his  answer  what 
it  may,2- 1  think  I  shall  fasten  upon  that  Necklace  business  (to 

1  Carlyle  had  wished  to  spend  the  winter  in  Paris,  but  was  prevented  by 
want  of  means. 

2  The  answer  was  unfavourable.  All  editors,  from  this  time  forward,  gave 
Carlyle  a  cold  shoulder  till  the  appearance  of  the  French  Revolution .  After 
the  first  astonishment  with  which  his  articles  had  been  received,  the  world 
generally  had  settled  into  the  view  taken  at  Edinburgh,  that  fine  talents, 


299 


Art  and  Prophecy. 

prove  myself  in  the  narrative  style),  and  commence  it  (sending  for 
books  from  Edinburgh)  in.  some  few  days.  For  the  rest  I  have 
books  enough ;  your  great  parcel  came  about  a  fortnight  ago.  I 
have  already  read  what  Mill  sent  for  me.  Finally,  yesterday  no 
farther  gone,  I  drove  over  to  Bar jarg, 1  in  the  middle  of  thick  small 
rain,  to  get  the  keys  of  the  library,  which  I  found  most  handsomely 
left  for  me,  so  that  I  could  seize  the  catalogue  and  some  half- 
dozen  volumes  to  return  at  discretion.  It  is  really  a  very  great 
favour ;  there  are  various  important  works  there,  reading  which 
I  am  far  better  than  at  any  university.  For  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  have  free  access  to  some  kind  of  book-collection.  I,  a  book¬ 
man  !  One  way  and  another  we  look  forward  to  a  cheerfullish 
kind  of  winter  here. 

I  wTill  try  for  Winckelmann.  ...  In  my  heterodox  heart  there  is 
yearly  growing  up  the  strangest,  crabbed,  one-sided  persuasion, 
that  art  is  but  a  reminiscence  now :  that  for  us  in  these  days 
prophecy  (wTell  understood),  not  poetry,  is  the  thing  wranted.  How 
can  we  sing  and  paint  when  we  do  not  yet  believe  and  see  ?  There 
is  some  considerable  truth  in  this :  how  much  I  have  not  yet 

which  no  one  had  denied  him,  were  being  hopelessly  thrown  away — that  what 
he  had  to  say  was  extravagant  nonsense.  Whigs,  Tories,  and  Radicals  were 
for  once  agreed.  He  was,  in  real  truth,  a  Bohemian,  whose  hand  was  against 
every  man,  and  every  man’s  hand,  but  too  naturally,  was  against  him,  and 
the  battle  was  sadly  unequal.  If  Carlyle  had  possessed  the  peculiar  musical 
quality  which  makes  the  form  of  poetry,  his  thoughts  would  have  swept  into 
popularity  as  rapidly  and  as  widely  as  Byron’s.  But  his  verse  was  wooden. 
Rhymes  and  metre  were  to  him  no  wings  on  which  to  soar  to  the  empyrean. 
Happy  for  him  in  the  end  that  it  was  so.  Poetry  in  these  days  is  read  for 
pleasure.  It  is  not  taken  to  heart  as  practical  truth.  Carlyle’s  mission  was 
that  of  a  prophet  and  teacher — and  a  prophet’s  lessons  can  only  be  driven  home 
by  prose. 

1 A  large  country  house  ten  miles  from  Craigenputtock,  the  library  of  which 
had  been  placed  at  Carlyle’s  service.  Scotland  had  grown  curious  about  him, 
however  cold  or  hostile  ;  and  the  oddest  questions  were  asked  respecting  his 
identity  and  history.  Henry  Inglis,  an  Edinburgh  friend,  writes  to  Mrs.  Car¬ 
lyle  :  ‘  Swift,  I  think  it  is,  who  says,  “  Truly  you  may  know  a  great  man  by 
the  crowd  of  blockheads  who  press  round  and  endeavour  to  obstruct  his 
path.”  A  blockhead  of  my  acquaintance  (I  have  an  extensive  acquaintance 
amongst  them)  chose  to  ask  me  the  other  day  whether  the  Carlyle  who 
screams  hebdomadally  in  the  church  in  Carruthers  Close  was  our  Carlyle.  I 
consider  such  a  remark  almost  equal  to  receiving  the  hand  of  fellowship  from 
Goethe.  It  is  nearly  the  same  thing  to  be  the  disclaimed  or  the  misunderstood 
of  an  Ass,  and  the  acknowledged  of  a  Prophet.’  The  Bar  jarg.  acknowledg¬ 
ment  of  Carlyle’s  merits  was  a  kind  more  honourable  to  its  owner. 


300 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


fixed.  Now,  what,  under  such  point  of  view,  is  all  existing  art 
and  study  of  art  ?  What  was  the  great  Goethe  himself  ?  The 
greatest  of  contemporary  men  ;  who,  however,  is  not  to  have  any 
followers,  and  should  not  have  any. 

Extracts  from  Journal. 

October  28. — No  man  in  modern  times,  perhaps  no  man  in  any 
time,  ever  came  through  more  confusion  with  less  imputation 
against  him  than  Lafayette.  None  can  accuse  him  of  variable¬ 
ness  ;  he  has  seen  the  world  change  like  a  conjuror’s  pasteboard 
world  ;  he  stands  there  unchanged  as  a  stone-pillar  in  the  midst  of 
it.  Does  this  prove  him  a  great  man,  a  good  man?  Nowise — 
perhaps  only  a  limited  man. 

« 

The  difference  between  Socrates  and  Jesus  Christ!  The  great 
Conscious ;  the  immeasurably  great  Unconscious.  The  one  cun¬ 
ningly  manufactured ;  the  other  created,  living,  and  life-giving. 
The  epitome  this  of  a  grand  and  fundamental  diversity  among 
men.  Did  any  truly  great  man  ever  go  through  the  world  without 
offence ;  all  rounded  in,  so  that  the  current  moral  systems  could 
find  no  fault  in  him  ?  Most  likely,  never. 

Washington  is  another  of  our  perfect  characters  ;  to  me  a  most 
limited,  uninteresting  sort.  The  thing  is  not  only  to  avoid  error, 
but  to  attain  immense  masses  of  truth.  The  ultra-sensual  sur¬ 
rounds  the  sensual  and  gives  it  meaning,  as  eternity  does  time. 
Do  I  understand  this  ?  Yes,  partly,  I  do. 

If  I  consider  it  well,  there  is  hardly  any  book  in  the  world  that 
has  sunk  so  deep  into  me  as  ‘  Eeinecke  Fuchs.’  It  co-operates 
with  other  tendencies.  Perhaps  my  whole  speculation  about 
‘  clothes  ’  arose  out  of  that.  It  now  absolutely  haunts  me,  often 
very  painfully,  and  in  shapes  that  I  will  not  write  even  here. 

Yet,  again,  how  beautiful,  how  true,  is  this  other :  ‘  Man  is  an 
incarnate  word.’  Both  these  I  habitually  feel. 

‘This  little  life-boat  of  a  world,  with  its  noisy  crew  of  a 
mankind,’  vanishing  ‘  like  a  cloud-speck  from  the  azure  of  the 
All.’  How  that  thought  besieges  me,  elevating  and  annihilat¬ 
ing.  What  is  ‘  fame  ’  ?  What  is  life  ? 

All  barriers  are  thrown  down  before  me  ;  but  then,  also,  all 
tracks  and  points  of  support.  I  look  hesitatingly,  almost  be- 


Extracts  from  Journal. 


301 


wilderedly,  into  a  confused  sea.  The  necessity  of  caution  sug¬ 
gests  itself.  Hope  diminished  burns  not  the  less  brightly,  like  a 
star  of  hope.  Quefaire?  Que  devenir  ?  Cannot  answer.  It  is  not 
I  only  that  must  answer,  but  Necessity  and  I. 

Meanwhile,  this  reading  is  like  a  kind  of  manuring  compost 
partly,  of  which  my  mind  has  need.  Be  thankful  that  thou  hast 
it,  that  thou  hast  time  for  applying  it.  In  economics  I  can  yet  hold 
out  for  a  number  of  months. 

Friday ,  November  1. — What  a  time  one  loses  in  these  winter 

days  lighting  fires  !  lighting  candles !  I  am  in  the  dining-room, 

which  would  fain  smoke,  for  it  blows  a  perfect  storm.  Twelve 

o’clock  is  at  hand,  and  not  a  word  down  vet ! 

*  *  * 

£  Edinburgh  Review  ’  came  last  night.  A  smart,  vigorous  paper 
by  Macaulay  on  Horace  Walpole.  Ambitious ;  too  antithetic ; 
the  heart  of  the  matter  not  struck.  What  will  that  man  become  ? 
He  has  more  force  and  emphasis  in  him  than  any  other  of  my 
British  contemporaries  (coevals).  Wants  the  root  of  belief,  how¬ 
ever.  May  fail  to  accomplish  much.  Let  us  hope  better  things. 

How  confused,  helpless  ;  how  dispirited*  impotent ;  how  miser¬ 
able  am  I !  The  world  is  so  vast  and  complex ;  my  duty  in  it 
will  not  in  the  least  disclose  itself.  One  has  to  shape  and  to  be 
shaped.  It  is  all  a  perplexed  imbroglio,  and  you  have  by  toil  and 
endeavour  to  shape  it.  ‘  Nothing  would  ever  come  to  me  in  my 
sleej) !  ’ 

Vain  to  seek  a  ‘  theory  of  virtue  ;  ’  to  plague  oneself  with  specu¬ 
lations  about  such  a  thing.  Virtue  is  like  health — the  harmony 
of  the  whole  man.  Some  property  of  it  traceable  in  every  part 
of  the  man ;  its  complete  character  only  in  the  whole  man. 

4  Mark  this ;  it  is  not  far  from  the  truth,  and  as  I  think  it,  nearer 
than  as  I  here  express  it. 

My  mode  of  writing  for  the  last  two  days  quite  the  old  one,  and 
very  far  from  the  right.  How  alter  it?  It  must  be  altered.  Could 
I  not  write  more  as  I  do  here  ?  My  style  is  like  no  other  man’s. 
The  first  sentence  bewrays  me.  How  wrong  is  that  ?  Mannerism 
at  least ! 

Shall  I  go  to  London  and  deliver  a  course  of  lectures  ?  Shall  I 


302 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


endeavour  to  write  a  Time-Hat?  Shall  I  write  a  Life  of  Bona* 
parte  ?  A  French  Revolution  ?  The  decease  of  bookselling  per¬ 
plexes  me.  Will  ever  a  good  book  henceforth  be  paid  for  by  the 
public  ?  Perhaps ;  perhaps  not.  Never  more  in  general.  Que 
faire  ?  Live  and  struggle.  And  so  now  to  work. 

The  dejected  tone  so  visible  in  these  entries  was  due  to 
no  idle  speculative  distress,  hut  to  the  menacing  aspect 
which  circumstances  were  beginning  to  assume.  The  edi¬ 
tors  and  booksellers  were  too  evidently  growing  shy ;  and 
unless  articles  could  find  insertion  or  books  be  paid  for,  no 
literary  life  for  Carlyle  would  long  be  possible.  Employ¬ 
ment  of  some  other  kind,  however  humble  and  distasteful, 
would  have  to  he  sought  for  and  accepted.  Anything, 
even  the  meanest,  would  he  preferable  to  courting  popu¬ 
larity,  and  writing  less  than  the  very  best  that  he  could ; 
writing  4  duds ,’  as  he  called  it,  to  please  the  popular  taste. 
An  experienced  publisher  once  said  to  me :  ‘  Sir,  if  you 
wish  to  write  a  book  which  will  sell,  consider  the  ladies’ - 
maids.  Please  the  ladies’-maids,  you  please  the  great 
reading  world.’  Carlyle  would  not,  could  not,  write  for 
ladies’-maids. 

The  dreary  monotony  of  the  Craigenputtock  life  on 
these  terms  was  interrupted  in  November  by  interesting 
changes  in  the  family  arrangements.  The  Carlyles,  as 
has  been  more  than  once  said,  were  a  family  whose  warm¬ 
est  affections  were  confined  to  their  own  circle.  Jean,  the 
youngest  sister,  the  4  little  crow,’  was  about  to  be  married 
to  her  cousin,  James  Aitken  who  had  once  lived  at  Scots- 
brig,  and  was  now  a  rising  tradesman  in  Dumfries ;  a 
house-painter  by  occupation,  of  a  superior  sort,  and  pos¬ 
sessed  of  talents  in  that  department  which  with  better  op¬ 
portunities  might  have  raised  him  to  eminence  as  an  ar¬ 
tist.  4  James  Aitken,’  Carlyle  wrote,  ‘  is  an  ingenious, 
clever  kind  of  fellow,  with  fair  prospects,  no  bad  habit, 
and  perhaps  very  great  skill  in  his  craft.  I  saw  a  copied 


Marriage  of  Jean  Carlyle. 


303 


Ruysdael  of  Lis  doing  which  amazed  me.’  The  41  crow’ 
had  not  followed  up  the  poetical  promise  of  her  childhood. 
She  had  educated  herself  into  a  clear,  somewhat  stern, 
well-informed  and  sensible  woman.  Hard  Annandale 
farm- work  had  left  her  no  time  for  more.  But,  like  all 
the  Carlyles,  she  was  of  a  rugged,  independent  temper. 
Jean,  her  mother  said,  was  outgrowing  the  contracted 
limits  of  the  Scotsbrig  household.  Her  marriage  conse¬ 
quently  gave  satisfaction  to  all  parties.  Carlyle  himself 
was  present  at  the  ceremony.  c  A  cold  mutton  pie  of  gi¬ 
gantic  dimensions  ’  was  consumed  for  the  breakfast ;  4  the 
stirrup-cup’  was  drunk,  Carlyle  joining,  and  this  domestic 
matter  was  happily  ended. 

But  Jean’s  marriage  was  not  all.  James  Carlyle,  the 
youngest  brother,  who  carried  on  the  Scotsbrig  farm,  had 
a  similar  scheme  on  foot,  and  had  for  himself  fallen  in 
love  ;  £  nothing  since  JVerter’s  time  equalling  the  intensity 
of  his  devotion.’  He,  too,  was  eager  to  be  married  •;  but 
as  this  arrangement  would  affect  his  mother’s  position, 
Carlyle,  as  the  eldest  of  the  family,  had  to  interfere  to 
prevent  precipitancy.  All  was  well  settled  in  the  follow¬ 
ing  spring,  Carlyle  making  fresh  sacrifices  to  bring  it 
about.  His  brother  Alick  owed  him  more  than  200 1. 
This,  if  it  could  be  paid,  or  when  it  could  be  paid,  was  to 
be  added  to  his  younger  brother’s  fortune.  His  mother 
was  either  to  continue  at  Scotsbrig,  or  some  new  home  was 
to  be  found  for  her,  which  Carlyle  himself  thought  pref¬ 
erable.  His  letter  to  the  intending  bridegroom  will  be 
read  with  an  interest  which  extends  beyond  its  immediate 
subject. 

You  have  doubtless  considered  (lie  said)  that  such  an  engage¬ 
ment  must  presuppose  one  condition  :  our  mother  and  sisters 
forming  some  other  establishment  also.  I  should  not  be  sur¬ 
prised,  indeed,  if  you  had  fancied  that  our  mother  and  your  wife 
might  try  to  live  together  at  Scotsbrig ;  but  depend  upon  it,  my 


304 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

dear  brother,  tliis  will  never  and  in  no  case  do.  The  house  must 
belong  to  your  wife  from  the  instant  she  sets  foot  in  it ;  neither 
mother  nor  sister  must  any  longer  be  there  to  contest  it  with  her. 
The  next  question  then  for  all  of  us,  and  for  you  too,  is,  What  will 
my  mother  and  the  two  lassies  do  ?  I  have  thought  of  it  often  ; 
and  though  changes  are  always  grievous,  I  think  there  are  means 
to  get  a  new  way  of  life  devised  for  our  dear  mother  and  those 
who  yet  need  her  guidance,  and  see  them  supported  without  bur¬ 
dening  anyone.  They  must  have,  of  course,  a  habitation  of  their 
own.  With  my  mother’s  money,  with  the  interest  of  the  girls’ 
money,  with  mine  (or  what  was  Alick’s,  now  in  your  hands),  which 
I  think  of  adding  to  it,  they  will  be  able  to  live  decently  enough, 
I  think,  if  we  can  be  judicious  in  choosing  some  place  for  them. 

In  this  latter  ‘  if,’  however,  you  yourself  see  that  Martinmas  is  by 
no  means  the  fit  time  ;  that  Whitsunday,  the  universal  term-day 
of  the  country,  is  the  soonest  they  can  be  asked  to  find  new  quar¬ 
ters.  Now,  as  your  wife  cannot  be  brought  home  to  Scotsbrig  be¬ 
fore  that  time,  my  decided  advice  were  that  you  did  not  wed  till 
then.  I  understand  what  wonderful  felicities  young  men  like  you 
expect  from  marriage ;  I  know  too  (for  it  is  a  truth  as  old  as  the 
world)  that  such  expectations  hold  out  but  for  a  little  while.  I 
shall  rejoice  much  (such  is  my  experience  of  the  world)  if  in  your 
new  situation  you  feel  as  happy  as  in  the  old  ;  say  nothing  of  hap¬ 
pier.  But,  in  any  case,  do  I  not  know  that  you  will  never  (what¬ 
ever  happens)  venture  on  any  such  solemn  engagement  with  a  di¬ 
rect  duty  to  fly  in  the  face  of  ? — the  duty,  namely,  of  doing  to  your 
dear  mother  and  your  dear  sisters  as  you  would  wish  that  they  should 
do  to  you.  Believe  me,  my  dear  brother,  wait.  Half  a  year  for 
such  an  object  is  not  long!  If  you  ever  repent  so  doing,  blame 
me  for  it. 

And  so  now,  my  dear  James,  you  have  it  all  before  you,  and  can 
consider  what  you  will  do.  Do  nothing  that  is  selfish ,  nothing 
that  you  cannot  front  the  world  and  the  world’s  Maker  upon ! 
May  He  direct  you  right. 

Carlyle,  perhaps,  judged  of  possibilities  by  his  own  rec¬ 
ollections.  He,  when  it  would  have  added  much  to  his 
own  wife’s  happiness,  and  might  have  shielded  her  entirely 
from  the  worst  of  her  sufferings,  had  refused  peremptorily 
to  live  with  her  mother,  or  let  her  live  with  them,  except 
on  impossible  terms.  He  knew  himself  and  his  peremp- 


An  Annan  Picture. 


305 


tory  disposition,  and  in  that  instance  was  probably  right. 
Iiis  own  mother  happily  found  such  an  arrangement  not 
impossible.  Her  son  married,  and  she  did  not  leave  her 
home,  but  lived  out  there  her  long  and  honoured  life,  and 
ended  it  under  the  old  roof. 

Carlyle  himself,  meanwhile,  was  soon  back  again  with 
his  ‘  Diamond  Hecklace  ’  and  his  proof-sheets  of  ‘  Teufels- 
drockh 5  at  Craigenputtock,  where  his  winter  life  stands 
pictured  in  his  correspondence. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

Craigenputtock  :  November  IS,  1833. 

I  will  now  record  for  you  a  little  smallest  section  of  universal 
history  :  the  scene  still  Annandale.  The  Tuesday  after  the  wed¬ 
ding  I  sate  correcting  the  second  portion  of  ‘  Teufelsdrockh  ’  for 
‘  Fraser’s  Magazine,’  but  towards  night  Alick,  according  to  ap¬ 
pointment,  arrived  with  his  ‘  little  black  mare  ’  to  drive  me  ‘  some¬ 
whither’ next  day.  "We  after  some  consultation  made  it  Annan, 
and  saw  ourselves  there  about  one  o’clock.  A  damp,  still  after¬ 
noon,  quite  Novembei'isli  and  pensive-making.  The  look  of  those 
old  familiar  houses,  the  jow  of  the  old  bell,  went  far  into  my 
heart.  A  struggling  funeral  proceeded  up  the  street ;  Senhouse 
Nelson  (now  Beform  Bill  Provost),  with  Banker  Scott,  in  such 
priggish  clothes  as  he  wears,  and  two  others  of  the  like,  stood  on 
Benson’s  porch  stairs  gazing  into  inanity.  Annan  still  stood 
there  :  and  I — here.  Ben  was  from  home  ;  his  little  son  gone  to 
London,  the  maid  thought,  into  some  hospital,  some  navy  ap¬ 
pointment,  into  she  knew  not  what.  Finally,  we  determined  on 
seeking  out  Waugh.1  Old  Marion,  as  clean  and  dour  as  ever, 
hobblingly  admitted  us.  There  sate  the  Doctor,  grizzle-locked 
(since  I  saw  him),  yellow,  wrinkled,  forlorn,  and  outcast  looking, 
with  beeswax  and  other  tailor  or  botcher  apparatus  on  a  little 
table,  the  shell  of  an  old  coat  lying  dismembered  on  the  floor ;  an- 

1  Son  of  a  thriving  citizen  of  Annan,  who  had  been  Carlyle’s  contemporary 
and  fellow-student  at  Edinburgh,  a  friend  of  Irving,  at  whose  rooms,  indeed, 
Carlyle  first  became  acquainted  with  Irving  :  who,  with  money,  connections, 
and  supposed  talents,  had  studied  medicine,  taken  his  degree,  and  was  consid¬ 
ered  to  have  the  brightest  prospects,  had  gone  into  literature,  among  other 
adventures,  and  now,  between  vanity  and  ill-fortune,  had  drifted  into  what  is 
here  described. 

VOL.  II.— 20 


306  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

other  not  yet  so  condemnable,  which  with  his  own  hand  he  was 
struggling  to  rehabilitate  ;  a  new  cuff  I  saw  (after  he  had  huddled 
the  old  vestment  on)  evidently  of  his  own  making ;  the  front  but¬ 
ton  holes  had  all  exploded,  a  huge  rent  lay  under  one  armpit,  ex¬ 
tending  over  the  back  ;  the  coat  demanded  mending,  since  turning 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  There  sate  he  ;  into  such  last  corner 
(with  the  pale  winter  sun  looking  through  on  him)  had  Schicksal 
und  eigne  Schuld  hunted  the  ill-starred  Waugh.  For  the  first  time 
I  was  truly  wae  for  him.  He  talked  too  with  such  meekness,  yet  is 
still  mad ;  talking  of  1,200/.  to  be  made  by  a  good  comedy,  and 
such  like.  When  we  came  out  (since  the  state  of  his  coat  would 
not  allow  him  to  come  with  us)  Alick  and  I  settled  that  at  least 
we  would  assure  ourselves  of  his  having  food  ;  Alick,  therefore, 
got  twenty  shillings  to  take  him  four  hundredweight  of  potatoes 
and  eight  stone  of  meal ;  three-fourths  of  which  have  been  already 
handed  in  (without  explanation) ;  the  rest  will  follow  at  Candle¬ 
mas.  So  goes  it  in  native  Annandale.  A  hundred  times  since  has 
that  picture  of  Waugh,  botching  his  old  coat  at  the  cottage  win¬ 
dow,  stranded  and  cast  out  from  the  whole  occupied  earth,  risen 
in  my  head  with  manifold  meaning.1  His  ‘Prophecy  Book ’has 
not  paid  its  expenses.  His  ‘  Pathology  ’  the  Longmans,  very  nat¬ 
urally,  would  not  have.  I  endeavoured  to  convince  him  that  lit¬ 
erature  was  hopeless,  doubly  and  trebly  hopeless  for  him.  Further 
advice  I  did  not  like  to  urge  ;  my  sole  consolation  is  to  know  that 
for  the  present  he  has  plenty  of  meal  and  potatoes,  and  salt  cheap. 
Perhaps  it  is  likely  he  will  fall  into  his  mother’s  state,  let  an  in¬ 
dolent  insanity  get  the  mastery  over  him,  and  spend  his  time 
mostly  in  bed.  I  rather  traced  some  symptoms  of  that :  Gott  he- 
liute. 

Here  at  Craigenputtock  everything  is  in  its  stillest  condition. 
I  have  read  many  books,  put  through  me  a  vast  multitude  of 
thoughts  unutterable  and  utterable.  In  health  we  seem  to  im¬ 
prove,  especially  Janekin.  We  have  realised  a  shower-bath  at 
Dumfries,  and  erected  it  in  the  room  over  this ;  the  little  dame 
fearlessly  plunges  it  over  her  in  coldest  mornings.  I  have  had  it 
only  twice.  Further,  of  external  things,  know  that  by  science  I 
extracted  the  dining-room  lock ,  had  it  repaired,  and  now  it  shuts 
like  a  Christian  lock !  This  is  small  news,  yet  great.  In  my  little 
library  are  two  bell  ropes  (brass  wire  and  curtain-ring),  the  dain¬ 
tiest  you  ever  saw  ;  finally,  the  ‘  Segretario  Ambulante  ’  in  fittest 


1  The  fafce'of  unsuccessful  ‘  literature.’ 


The  £  Diamond  Necklace? 


307 


framing  liangs  right  behind  my  back  (midway  between  the  doors 
and  the  fire)  and  looks'  beautiful ;  really  the  piece  of  art  I  take  most 
pleasure  in  of  all  my  Kunst-  Vorrath.  _  He  is  a  delightful  fellow ; 
shows  you  literature  in  its  simplest  quite  steadfast  condition,  be¬ 
low  which  it  cannot  sink.  My  own  portrait  was  to  have  been 
framed  similarly  and  hung  by  him  as  counterpart,  but  Jane  has 
put  in  rosewood  and  gilding,  much  to  my  dislike,  and  it  hangs 
now  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  (in  the  drawing-room),  and  keeps 
mostly  out  of  my  sight.  If  you  think  that  our  piano  will  still  act, 
that  one  reach  of  the  peat-stack  is  carried  in,  and  all  else  in  its 
old  state,  you  may  fancy  us  all  tight  and  right,  so  far  as  the  case 
of  life  goes.  As  to  the  kernel  or  spiritual  part,  there  can  hardly 
any  description  be  given,  so  much- of  it  has  not  yet  translated  itself 
into  words.  I  am  quiet ;  not  idle,  not  unhappy  ;  by  God’s  bless¬ 
ing  shall  yet  see  how  I  can  turn  myself.  Cochrane  refuses  both 
my  projected  articles.  I  have  nevertheless  written  the  ‘Diamond 
Necklace  ;  ’  at  least,  it  is  rough  hewn  in  the  drawer  here,  and  only 
these  marriages  have  kept  me  from  finishing  it.  The  other  article 
I  could  not  now  have  undertaken  to  write,  the  Saint  Simonians,  as 
you  may  perhaps  know,  having  very  unexpectedly  come  to  light 
again,  and  set  to  giving  missionary  lectures  of  a  most  questionable 
sort  in  London.  Mill  is  not  there  to  tell  me  about  them,  but  in 
Paris ;  so  I  can  understand  nothing  of  it,  except  that  they  are  not 
to  be  written  of,  being  once  more  in  the  fermenting  state.  Coch¬ 
rane  and  I  have  probably  enough  done  ;  but  as  Mull  Brown  says, 
‘perhaps  it  is  just  as  well ;  for  I  firmly  intended,  &c.’  I  believe 
I  must  go  back  ere  long  and  look  at  London  again.  In  the  mean¬ 
time  learn,  study,  read  ;  consider  thy  ways  and  be  wise  !  ‘  Teu- 

felsdrockh,’  as  was  hinted,  is  coming  out  in  ‘Fraser’ — going  ‘to 
pot  ’  probably,  yet  not  without  leaving  me  some  money,  not  with¬ 
out  making  me  quit  of  him.  To  it  again !  Try  it  once  more ! 
Alick  was  here  since  Saturday;  came  up  with  two  sacks  of  old 
oats  for  Harry ;  went  away  this  moaning  with  a  load  of  wood,  &c. 
Not  till  Saturday  last  did  we  hear  a  word  from  the  Advocate.  He 
now  writes  to  Jane  in  the  frostiest,  most  frightened  manner ;  makes 
honourable  mention  of  you ;  to  me  he  hardly  alludes  except  from 
a  far  distance.  Jane  will  have  it  that  he  took  many  things  to  him¬ 
self  in  the  article  ‘Diderot,’  a  possible  thing,  which  corresponds, 
too,  with  the  cessation  of  his  letters.  I  love  the  Advocate,  and 
partially  pity  him,  and  will  write  to  him  in  such  choicest  mood  as 
I  can  command  at  present. 


308  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

December  3,  1833. 

My  clear  Mother,— I  hope  Notman  delivered  you  the  pills,  so 
stupidly  forgotten.  The  hasty  scrawl  that  went  with  them  would 
signify  that  we  were  here  and  little  more  ;  I  was  hardly  this 
twelvemonth  in  such  a  hurry.  Since  then  all  goes  on  as  it  was 
doing ;  in  spite  of  this  most  disastrous  weather,  the  worst  we  have 
had  for  long,  we  indeed  sit  snug  and  defy  the  tempest ;  but  Mac- 
adom’s  stable-slates  jingling  off  from  time  to  time  suggest  to  us 
what  many  are  suffering;  some  doubtless  far  out  in  the  ‘wide  and 
wasteful  main.’  Both  Jane  and  I  go  walking  by  night ,  if  not  by 
day,  if  there  is  a  gleam  of  clearness.  I  take  now  and  then  a  kind 
of  deck  walk  to-and-fro  at  the  foot  of  the  avenue,  in  a  spot  where 
you  know  the  wood  shelters  one  from  all  winds  that  can  blow. 

We  saw  Jean  and  her  man  and  household  as  we  passed  through 
Dumfries ;  it  was  all  looking  right  enough  ;  one  could  hope  that 
they  might  do  very  well  there.  Aitken,  I  find,  by  a  picture  over 
his  mantelpiece,  has  quite  another  talent  for  painting  than  I  gave 
him  the  smallest  credit  for  ;  it  is  really  a  surprising  piece  to  have 
been  executed  there.  As  to  Jean,  we  have  always  known  her  as  a 
most  reasonable,  clear,  and  resolute  little  creature ;  of  her,  in  all 
scenes  and  situations,  good  is  to  be  anticipated.  So  we  will  wish 
them  heartily  a  blessing  with  hope. 

Ever  since  Alick  left  us  I  have  been  writing  with  all  my  old 
vehemence.  This  day  too  insisted  on  doing  my  task.  It  is-  about 
the  ‘  Diamond  Necklace,’  that  story  you  heard  some  hint  of  in 
Cagliostro ;  we  shall  see  what  it  turns  to.  I  am  in  the  drawing¬ 
room  to-night,  with  my  big  table  (and  side  half  to  the  fire,  which 
is  hot  enough)  ;  Jane  at  my  back  also  writing;  what  she  will  not 
tell  me.  We  have  been  here  together  these  three  days  ;  the  rai  l 
had  run  down  the  vents  actually  in  large  streams  and  damped 
everything.  This  is  what  I  call  descriptive  minuteness.  Let  me 
also  say  I  have  been  reading  in  poor  Waugh’s  book,  and  find  your 
opinion  of  it  verified  ;  it  is  actually  ‘  far  better  than  one  could 
have  expected,’  and  contains  some  interesting  things.  Poor 
Waugh  !  Poor  fellow — after  all ! 

Alick’s  little  letter  (one  of  the  smallest  I  ever  read,  but  not  the 
emptiest )  informed  us  of  what  had  been  passing  at  Catlinns,  and 
that  you  were  there,  lie  said,  well.  Have  you  returned  from  the 
expedition  still  well?  I  cannot  too  often  impress  on  you  the 
danger  of  winter  weather ;  you  have  a  tendency  to  apprehension 


309 


Last  Winter  at  Craigenjputtock. 

for  every  one  but  yourself.  Catlinns  is  not  a  good  place  in  winter, 
and  were  Jenny  not  the  healthiest  of  women,  must  have  been  very 
trying  for  her. 

But  there  is  another  expedition,  my  dear  mother,  to  which  you 
are  bound,  which  I  hope  you  are  getting  ready  for.  Come  up 
with  Austin  and  Mary  to  J ean  ;  stay  with  her  till  you  rest ;  send¬ 
ing  me  up  word  when ;  on  Wednesday  or  any  other  day  I  will  come 
driving  down  and  fetch  you.  In  about  a  week  hence,  as  I  calcu¬ 
late,  I  shall  be  done  with  this  scribblement,  and  then  we  can  read 
together  and  talk  together  and  walk  together.  Besides,  this,  in 
the  horrid  winter  weather,  is  a  better  lodging  for  you  than  any 
other,  and  we  will  take  better  care  of  you — we  promise.  The  blue 
room  shall  be  dry  as  fire  can  make  it ;  no  such  drying,  except 
those  you  make  at  Scotsbrig,  where  on  one  occasion,  as  I  remem¬ 
ber,  you  spent  the  whole  time  of  my  visit  in  drying  my  clothes. 
Lastly,  that  when  ‘you  come  you  may  come.'1  Jane  bids  me  com¬ 
municate  to  Jamie  that  she  wants  three  stone  of  meal,  but  will  not 
take  it  unless  he  take  pay  for  it. 

And  so,  dear  mother,  this  scribble  must  end,  as  others  have 
done.  To-morrow,  I  believe,  is  my  eight-and-thirtieth  birthday  ! 
You  wTere  then  young  in  life  :  I  had  not  yet  entered  it.  Since 
then — how  much  !  how  much  !  They  are  in  the  land  of  silence 
(but,  while  we  live,  not  of  forgetfulness !)  whom  we  once  knew, 
and,  often  with  thoughts  too  deep  for  words,  wistfully  ask  of  their 
and  our  Father  above  thatwTe  may  again  know.  God  is  great :  God 
is  good  !  It  is  written  ‘  He  will  wipe  away  all  tears  from  every 
eye.’  Be  it  as  He  wills  :  not  as  we  wish.  These  things  continually 
almost  dwell  with  me,  loved  figures  hovering  in  the  background  or 
foreground  of  my  mind.  A  few  years  more  and  we  too  shall  be 
with  them  in  eternity.  Meanwhile  it  is  this  Time  that  is  ours  :  let 
us  be  busy  with  it  and  work,  work,  for  the  night  cometh. 

I  send  you  all,  young  and  old,  my  heart’s  blessing,  and  remain 
as  ever,  my  dear  mother,  Your  affectionate 

T.  Cablyle. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Rome. 

Craigenputtock  :  December  24,  1 833. 

My  dear  Brother, — The  description  you  give  us  of  your  Boman 
life  is  copious  and  clear  :  very  gratifying  to  us  ;  such  matter  as  we 
like  best  to  see  in  your  letter.  For  myself,  however,  I  can  discern 
what  perhaps  our  good  mother  does  not  so  well,  that  with  all 
favourable  circumstances  you  have  need  of  your  philosophy  there. 


310 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


Alas  !  all  modes  of  existence  need  such  :  we  are,  once  for  all,  ‘  in 
a  conditional  world.’  Your  great  grievance  doubtless  is  that  prop¬ 
erly  your  office  gives  you  nothing  to  do.  Three  hundred  a  year 
with  sumptuous  accommodation  you  have,  but  that  is  all.  The 
days  have  to  fly  over  you,  and  you  seem  to  remain,  as  it  were, 
windbound ;  little  more  than  an  article  of  aristocratic  state  so  far 
as  your  own  household  goes.  This  I  can  well  see  and  sympathise 
in.  It  is  hard,  indeed,  and  grating  to  one’s  love  of  action  ;  a  thing 
intolerable ,  did  it  threaten  to  continue  for  ever.  But  you  are  no 
longer  a  headstrong  youth,  but  grown  a  deliberate  man.  Accord¬ 
ingly  I  see  you  adjust  yourself  to  this  also,  from  this  also  gather 
nourishment  and  strength.  You  are  equipping  yourself  (in  that 
strange  way,  so  it  was  ordered)  for  your  life  voyage  :  jDatience,  and 
the  anchor  is  lifted.  In  the  meanwhile,  too,  you  know  w^ell  no 
situation  imposes  on  us  the  necessity  of  idleness ;  if  not  in  one 
way,  if  not  in  one  of  a  hundred  ways,  you  will  work  in  the  hundred 
and  first.  Continue,  I  beg  you,  to  be  mild,  and  either  tolerant  or 
silently  intolerant.  Let  them  go  their  way  :  go  thou  thine.  What 
medical  practice  is  to  be  come  at,  eagerly  take.  In  defect  of  this 
read  your  Winckelmann,  or  any  other  solid  book  most  appropriate 
to  the  place ;  converse  with  all  manner  of  mortals  whose  knowl¬ 
edge,  as  above  ignorance,  can  directly  or  indirectly  teach  you 
aught.  I  should  prefer  Romans,  I  think,  to  any  such  a  set  of  En¬ 
glish  as  you  have  ;  in  any  case  if  it  is  a  man,  and  not  a  shadow  of 
a  man,  one  can  get  some  good  of  him.  My  poor  ‘  Segretario  Am- 
bulante,’  actually  converting  disorder  into  order  here  in  a  small 
way,  and  realising  victual  for  himself,  is  worth  a  hundred  mere 
Clothes  Horses  and  Patent  Digesters,  by  what  glorious  name  so¬ 
ever  they  may  call  themselves,  that  either  do  nothing,  or  the  re¬ 
verse  of  doing,  which  is  even  lower  than  nothing.  Patience, 
therefore,  my  dear  brother  !  Oline  Hast  aber  olme  Bast.  Let  the 
cooks  boil,  and  the  tailors  sew,  and  the  shovel  hod  emit  weekly  his 
modicum  of  dishwater  disguised  as  water  of  life  ;  it  is  all  in  the 
course  of  nature  :  ‘  like  the  crane’s  hoarse  jingling  flight  that  over 
our  heads  in  long-drawn  shriek  sends  down  its  creaking  gabble, 
and  tempts  the  silent  wanderer  that  he  look  aloft  at  them  a  mo¬ 
ment.  These  go  their  way  and  he  goes  his  ;  so  likewise  shall  it  be 
with  us.’ 

And  so  now  for  a  little  Dumfriesshire  news.  Our  good  mother 
continues  in  her  old  state  of  health,  or  rather  better,  as  they  re¬ 
port  to  me.  I  expect  her  about  Wednesday  week.  Austin  and 


Last  Winter  at  (Jraigenpu ttock. 


311 


Mary  1  will  bring  her  to  Jean’s,  and  then  on  some  appointed  day  I 
go  down  to  fetch  her  with  the  gig.  Austin  can  find  no  farm,  he 
told  us.  What  arrangement  he  will  make  for  the  coming  year  is 
not  yet  apparent.  Many  a  time,  I  think,  the  foolish  creatures, 
had  they  known  better  what  stuff  hope  is  made  of,  might  as  well 
have  stayed  where  they  were.  But  at  any  rate  it  was  a  change  to 
be  made — whether  to-day  or  to-morrow  is  perhaps  of  little  mo¬ 
ment.  A  land  of  sadness  naturally  came  over  our  mother’s  mind 
at  this  new  proof  of  terrestrial  vicissitude,  but  withal  she  is  quite 
peaceful  and  resolute,  having  indeed  a  deeper  basis  than  earth  and 
its  vicissitudes  to  stand  upon.  I  hardly  know  now  another  person 
in  the  world  that  so  entirely  believes  and  acts  on  her  belief. 
Doubt  not  that  all  will  shape  itself,  or  be  shapen,  in  some  toler¬ 
able  way.  Jean,  as  you  heard,  is  in  her  own  house  at  Lochmaben 
Gate ;  to  all  appearances  doing  perfectly  well.  Alick  has  got  a 
new  son,  whom  he  has  named,  or  purposes  naming,  Tom ,  after 
me.  He  can  get  along  amid  the  black  mud  acres  of  Catlinns,  but 
with  a  continual  struggle.  One  of  his  day-dreams  for  many  a 
year  has  been  America.  I  have  ceased  to  oppose  it  so  firmly  of 
late  ;  indeed,  I  often  enough  think  what  if  I  should  go  to  Amer¬ 
ica  myself  !  Thousands  and  millions  must  yet  go ;  it  is  properly 
but  another  section  of  our  own  country,  though  they  rebelled  very 
justly  against  George  Guelph,  and  beat  him,  as  they  ought.  We 
shall  do  or  determine  nothing  rashly,  the  rather  as  for  the  present 
nothing  presses. 

As  for  Craigenputtock,  it  stands  here  in  winter  grimness,  in 
winter  seclusion.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  violence  of  the  De¬ 
cember  weather  we  have  had  ;  trees  uprooted,  Macadam  slates 
jingling  down,  deluges  of  rain  :  Friday,  in  particular,  did  im¬ 
mense  mischief  to  ships  and  edifices  all  over  the  island ;  such  a 
day  as  has  not  been  seen  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  they  say.  We 
nestled  ourselves  down  here  :  ‘  better  a  wee  bush  than  no  bield .’ 
The  shortest  day  is  now  behind  us ;  we  shall  look  forward  to  a 
spring  which  will  be  all  the  gladder.  I  continue  to  read  great 
quantities  of  books.  I  have  also,  with  an  effort,  accomplished  the 
projected  piece  on  the  Diamond  Necklace.  It  was  finished  this  day 
week ;  really,  a  queer  kind  of  thing,  of  some  forty  and  odd  pages. 
Jane,  at  first,  thought  we  should  print  it  at  our  own  charges,  set  our 
name  on  it,  and  send  it  out  in  God’s  name.  Neither  she  nor  I  are 
now  so  sure  of  this,  but  will  consider  it.  My  attempt  was  to  make 


1  Carlyle’s  sister. 


312 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


reality  ideal ;  there  is  considerable  significance  in  that  notion  of 
mine,  and  I  have  not  yet  seen  the  limits  of  it,  nor  shall  till  I  have 
tried  to  go  as  far  as  it  will  carry  me.  The  story  of  the  Diamond 
Necklace  is  all  told  in  that  paper  with  the  strictest  fidelity,  yet  in 
a  kind  of  musical  way.  It  seems  to  me  there  is  no  epic  possible 
that  does  not  first  of  all  ground  itself  on  belief.  What  a  man 
does  not  believe  can  never  at  bottom  be  of  true  interest  to  him.  For 
the  rest  I  remain  in  the  completest  isolation  from  all  manner  of 
editors.  Teufelsdrockh  is  coming  regularly  out  in  ‘Fraser’s,’ 
with  what  effect  or  non-effect  I  know  not,  consider  not ;  and  this 
is  all  I  have  to  do  with  the  world  of  letters  and  types.  Before 
very  long  I  shall  most  probably  begin  something  else  :  at  all 
events,  go  over  again  to  the  Barjarg  library,  and  so  use  my  time 
and  not  waste  it.  I  have  a  considerable  quantity  and  quality  of 
things  to  impart  to  my  brothers  in  this  earth,  if  God  see  meet  to 
keep  me  in  it,  and  no  editor,  nor  body  of  editors,  nor,  indeed,  the 
whole  world  and  the  devil  to  back  it  oirt,  can  wholly  prevent  me 
from  imparting  them.  Forward,  then — getrosten  Muthes . 

My  thirty-eighth  birthday  happened  on  the  4th  last.  I  am  fast 
verging  towards  forty,  either  as  fool  or  physician.  The  flight  of 
time  is  a  world-old  topic.  I  was  much  struck  and  consoled  to  see 
it  handled  quite  in  my  own  spirit  in  the  Book  of  Job,  as  I  read 
there  lately.  Oh  !  Jack,  Jack,  what  unutterable  things  one  would 
have  to  utter,  had  one  organs.  WTe  have  had  some  five  or  six 
letters  from  the  Advocate :  mostly  unanswered  yet.  He  asks  me 
why  I  am  not  as  cheerful  a  man  as  you  ?  Babbles  greatly  about 
one  thing  and  the  other.  They  gave  him  a  dinner  at  Edinburgh, 
listened  patiently  to  his  account  of  himself,  pardoned  him  for  the 
sake  of  langsyne.  We  hear  now,  not  from  himself,  that  some 
Lord  Cringletie  or  other  is  about  resigning,  and  that  Jeffrey  is  to 
be  made  a  Judge.  It  will  be  a  happy  change.  Macaulay  goes  to 
India  with  10,000/.  a  year.  Jeffrey  calls  him  the  greatest  (if  I  re¬ 
member  rightly)  man  in  England,  not  excepting  the  Chancellor. 
How  are  we  to  get  on  without  him  at  all  ?  Depend  upon  it  we 
shall  get  on  better,  or  worse. 

And  now,  my  dear  brother,  leaving  these  extraneous  things  and 
persons,  let  me  commend  us  all  again  to  you,  the  absent,  and 
therefore  best  loved.  We  shall  not  see  you  at  our  New  Year’s 
Day,  but  I  here  promise  to  think  of  you  quite  specially,  and  even 
drink  your  health  (from  my  heart),  though  it  were  only  in  water, 
that  day.  Let  us,  as  I  said,  be  patient  and  peaceable.  There 


Last  Winter  at  Craigenjputtock. 


313 


are  other  new  years  coming,  when  we  shall  not  be  so  far  apart. 
Meanwhile,  be  strong.  Remember  always  what  you  said  of  the 
rush-busli  here  at  Puttock  on  the  wayside :  ‘  It  stands  there  be¬ 
cause  the  whole  world  could  not  prevent  its  standing ;  ’  one  of  the 
best  thoughts  I  ever  heard  you  utter — a  really  true  and  pregnant 
thought.  So,  too,  with  ourselves.  Let  us  resist  the  devil,  the 
world,  and  the  flesh.  Alas !  it  is  ill  to  do ;  yet  one  should  for 
ever  endeavour.  Cheer  up  your  low  heart  in  the  midst  of  those 
Roman  ruins.  There  is  a  time  still  young  and  fruitful,  which 
belongs  to  us.  Get  impatient  with  nobody.  How  easy  it  is  to 
bid  you  do  this ;  yet,  really,  it  is  right  and  true :  the  thing  we 
have  to  do  were  to  abolish  and  abandon  the  worthless.  If  we 
cannot  do  this  all  at  once,  let  us,  at  least,  not  make  it  worse  by 
adding  our  own  badness  to  it. 

God  be  with  you,  my  dear  John. 

Brother  Tom. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  writes  a  postscript  between  the  lines — 

My  dear  Brother, — I  am  told  there  is  great  space  left  for  me  to 
add  anything.  Say,  judge  with  your  own  eyes,  where.  If  I  had 
known  a  letter  was  to  go  this  week  I  should  have  been  first  in  the 
field.  My  good  intentions,  always  unfortunate,  were  frustrated 
last  time ;  but  Carlyle  always  chooses  a  day  for  writing  when  I 
am  particularly  engaged  with  household  good  and  individual  evil. 
God  bless  you,  however !  Some  day  I  shall  certainly  repay  your 
long,  kind  letter  as  it  deserves.  I  continue  to  take  your  pills. 
The  prescription  is  in  four  pieces.  I  am  better  than  last  winter, 
but  ‘  association  of  ideas  ’  is  still  hard  on  me. 


CHAPTER  XYII. 


A.D.  1834.  MT.  39. 

The  economical  situation  of  the  Carlyles  at  Craigenput- 
tock  grew  daily  more  pressing.  The  editors  gave  no  sign 
of  desiring  any  further  articles.  ‘  Teufelsdrockh  ’  was 
still  coming  out  in  ‘Fraser;’  but  the  public  verdict  upon 
it  was  almost  universally  unfavourable.  The  ‘  Diamond 
Hecklace,’  which  in  my  opinion  is  the  very  finest  illustra¬ 
tion  of  Carlyle’s  literary  power,  had  been  refused  in  its 
first  form  by  the  editor  of  the  ‘Foreign  Quarterly.’  Fe¬ 
vered  as  he  was  with  the  burning  thoughts  which  were 
consuming  his  very  soul,  which  he  felt  instinctively,  if 
once  expressed,  would  make  their  mark  on  the  mind  of 
his  country,  Carlyle  yet  knew  that  his  first  duty  was  to 
provide  honest  maintenance  for  himself  and  his  wife — 
somewhere  and  by  some  mean's ;  if  not  in  England  or 
Scotland,  then  in  America.  Ilis  aims  in  this  direction 
were  of  the  very  humblest,  not  going  beyond  St.  Paul’s. 
With  ‘food  and  raiment’  both  he  and  his  wife  could  be 
well  content.  But  even  for  these,  the  supplies  to  be  de¬ 
rived  from  literature  threatened  to  fail,  and  what  to  do 
next  he  knew  not.  In  this  situation  he  learnt  from  a 
paragraph  in  a  newspaper  that  a  new  Astronomy  Profes¬ 
sorship  was  about  to  be  established  in  Edinburgh.  Some 
Rhetoric  chair  was  also  likely  to  be  immediately  vacant. 
One  or  other  of  these,  especially  the  first,  he  thought  that 
Jeffrey  could,  if  he  wished,  procure  for  him.  Hitherto 
all  attempts  to  enter  on  the  established  roads  of  life  had 


Prospects. 


315 


failed.  lie  had  little  hopes  that  another  would  succeed  ; 
hut  he  thought  it  to  be  his  duty  to  make  the  attempt. 
He  was  justly  conscious  of  his  qualifications.  The  mathe¬ 
matical  ability  which  he  had  shown  in  earlier  times  had 
been  so  remarkable  as  to  have  drawn  the  attention  of  Le¬ 
gendre.  Though  by  the  high  standard  by  which  he  ha¬ 
bitually  tried  himself  Carlyle  could  speak,  and  did  speak, 
of  his  own  capabilities  with  mere  contempt,  yet  he  was 
above  the  affectation  of  pretending  to  believe  that  any 
really  fitter  candidate  was  likely  to  offer  himself.  6 1  will 
this  day  write  to  Jeffrey  about  it,’  he  says  in  his  Diary  on 
the  11th  of  January.  c Any  hope?  Little.  My  care  for 
it  also  not  much.  Let  us  do  what  we  can.  The  issue  not 
with  us.'>  He  cared  perhaps  more  than  he  had  acknowl¬ 
edged  to  himself.  He  allowed  his  imagination  to  rest  on 

O  O 

a  possible  future,  where,  delivered  from  the  fiery  unrest 
which  was  distracting  him,  he  might  spend  the  remainder 
of  his  life  in  the  calm  and  calming  study  of  the  stars  and 
their  movements.  It  was  a  last  effort  to  lay  down  the 
burden  which  had  been  laid  upon  him,  yet  not  a  cowardly 
effort — rather  a  wise  and  laudable  one — undertaken  as  it 
was  in  submission  to  the  Higher  Will. 

It  failed — failed  with  an  emphasis  of  which  the  effects 
can  be  traced  in  Carlyle’s  Ileminiscences  of  his  connection 

t/ 

with  Jeffrey.  He  condemns  especially  the  tone  of  Jeffrey, 
which  he  thought  both  ungenerous  and  insincere.  Insin- 
cere  it  certainly  was,  if  Jeffrey  had  any  real  influence,  for 
he  said  that  he  had  none,  and  if  he  had  already  secured 
the  appointment  for  his  own  secretary,  for  he  said  that  he 
had  not  recommended  his  secretary.  It  may  have  been 
ungenerous  if,  as  Carlyle  suspected,  Jeffrey  had  resented 
some  remarks  in  the  article  on  Diderot  as  directed  against 
himself,  for  he  endeavoured  to  lay  the  blame  of  unfitness 
for  promotion  upon  Carlyle  himself  ;  but  there  is  no  proof 
at  all  that  Carlyle’s  surmise  was  correct. 


310 


Life  of  T hernias  Carlyle. 


Within  the  last  few  days  (Carlyle  wTrote  to  his  brother)  I  have 
made  a  proposal  for  a  public  office,  and  been  rejected !  There  is 
to  be  an  Astronomical  Professor  and  Observer  in  Edinburgh,  and 
no  man  of  the  smallest  likelihood  to  fill  it.  I  thought  what  an 
honest  kind  of  work  it  was  ;  how  honestly  I  would  work  at  it  for  my 
bread,  and  harmonise  it  with  what  tended  infinitely  higher  than 
bread,  and  so  wrote  to  the  poor  Advocate  with  great  heartiness, 
telling  him  all  this.  He  answered  me  by  return  of  post  in  a  kind 
of  polite  fishwoman  shriek ;  adds  that  my  doctrines  (in  literature) 
are  ‘  arrogant,  anti-national,  absurd ;  ’  and  to  crown  the  whole  ‘  in 
conclusion,’  that  the  place  withal  is  for  an  old  secretary  of  his 
(who  has  not  applied  to  him),  unless  I  can  convince  the  electors 
that  I  am  fitter ;  which  I  have  not  the  faintest  disposition  to  do. 
I  have  written  back  to  the  poor  body,  suppressing  all  indignation, 
if  there  were  any ;  diffusing  over  all  the  balm  of  pity,  and  so  in  a 
handsome  manner  terminate  the  business.  One  has  ever  and  anon 
a  kind  of  desire  to  ‘  wash  away  ’  this  correspondent  of  ours ;  yet 
really  it  were  not  right.  I  can  see  him  even  in  this  letter  to  be 
very  thoroughly  miserable,  and  am  bound  to  help  him,  not  ag¬ 
gravate  him.  His  censures,  too,  have  something  flattering  even  in 
their  violence — otherwise  impertinent  enough ;  he  cannot  tolerate 
me,  but  also  he  cannot  despise  me ;  and  that  is  the  sole  misery. 
On  the  whole,  dear  Jack,  I  feel  it  very  wholesome  to  have  my 
vanity  humbled  from  time  to  time.  Would  it  were  rooted  out 
forever  and  a  day !  My  mother  said  when  I  showed  her  the  pur¬ 
port  of  the  letter,  ‘He  canna  hinder  thee  of  God’s  providence,’ 
which  also  was  a  glorious  truth. 

In  this  severe  judgment  there  was  possibly  some  justice. 
The  doubt  which  Jeffrey  pretended  to  feel,  whether  Car¬ 
lyle  was  equal  to  the  duties  of  handling  delicate  instru¬ 
ments  without  injuring  them,  cannot  have  been  quite  sin¬ 
cere.  The  supposition  that  a  man  of  supreme  intellectual 
qualification  could  fail  in  mastering  a  mere  mechanical 
operation  could  only  have  originated  in  irritation.  Car¬ 
lyle  already  possessed  a  scientific  knowledge  of  his  subject. 
A  few  days’  instruction  might  easily  have  taught  him  the 
mere  manual  exercise.  It  is  possible,  too,  that  if  Jeffrey 
had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  represent  to  Airy  and  Herschel, 


The  Astronomy  Professorship . 


317 


with  whom  the  choice  rested,  what  Carlyle’s  qualities  re¬ 
ally  were,  he  might  have  saved  to  a  Scotch  university 
Scotland’s  greatest  son,  who  would  have  made  the  School 
of  Astronomy  at  Edinburgh  famous  throughout  Europe, 
and  have  saved  Scotland  the  scandal  of  neglect  of  him  till 
his  fame  made  neglect  impossible. 

In  fairness  to  Jeffrey,  however,  whose  own  name  wTill  be 
remembered  in  connection  with  Carlyle  as  his  first  literary 
friend,  wTe  must  put  the  Lord  Advocate’s  case  in  his  own 
way.  If  he  was  mistaken,  he  was  mistaken  about  Carlyle’s 
character  with  all  the  world.  Everyone  in  Jeffrey’s  high 
Whig  circle,  the  Broughams  and  Macaulays  and  such  like, 
thought  of  Carlyle  as  he  did.  High  original  genius  is  al¬ 
ways  ridiculed  on  its  first  appearance  ;  most  of  all  by  those 
who  have  won  themselves  the  highest  reputation  in  work¬ 
ing  on  the  established  lines.  Genius  only  commands 
recognition  when  it  has  created  the  taste  which  is  to  ap¬ 
preciate  it.  Carlyle  acknowledged  ‘  that  no  more  unpro- 
motable  man  than  he  was  perhaps  at  present  extant.’ 

Mrs.  Carlyle  had  answered  Jeffrey’s  frosty  communica¬ 
tion  in  the  preceding  November  with  a  playfulness  which, 
so  far  as  she  wras  concerned,  had  disarmed  his  anger  with 
her,  and  lie  had  fallen  nearly  back  into  his  old  tone. 

Unpermitted  though  I  am  to  publish  Jeffrey’s  letters, 
I  must,  in  allowing  him  to  vindicate  himself,  adhere,  as 
nearly  as  I  can  without  trespassing,  to  his  own  language. 

In  the  first  week  in  December  he  had  written  affection¬ 
ately  to  Mrs.  Carlyle  and  kindly  to  Carlyle  himself,  press¬ 
ing  them  to  pay  him  a  visit  at  Craigcrook.  He  professed 
and  assuredly  felt  (for  his  active  kindness  in  the  past  years 
places  his  sincerity  above  suspicion)  a  continued  interest  in 
Carlyle,  some  provocation,  some  admiration,  and  a  genuine 
desire  for  his  happiness.  Carlyle  thought  that  he  did  not 
please  Jeffrey  because  he  was  so  ‘  dreadfully  in  earnest.’ 
The  expression  had  in  fact  been  used  by  J effrey  ;  but 


318 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


what  really  offended  and  estranged  him  was  Carlyle’s  ex¬ 
traordinary  arrogance — a  fault  of  which  no  one  who  knew 
Carlyle,  or  who  has  ever  read  his  letters,  can  possibly  ac¬ 
quit  him.  He  was  superior  to  the  people  that  he  came  in 
contact  with.  He  knew  that  he  was,  and  being  incapable 
of  disguise  or  affectation,  he  let  it  be  seen  in  every  sentence 
that  he  spoke  or  wrote.  It  was  arrogance,  but  not  the  ar¬ 
rogance  of  a  fool,  swollen  with  conceit  and  vapour,  but  the 
arrogance  of  Aristotle’s  6  man  of  lofty  soul,’  ‘  who  being  of 
great  merit,’  knows  that  he  is  so,  and  chooses  to  be  so  re¬ 
garded.  It  was  not  that  Carlyle  ever  said  to  himself  that 
he  was  wiser  than  others.  When  it  came  to  introspection, 
never  had  anyone  a  lower  opinion  of  himself ;  but  let  him 
be  crossed  in  argument,  let  some  rash  person,  whoever  he 
might  be,  dare  to  contradict  him,  and  Johnson  himself  was 
not  more  rude,  disdainful,  and  imperious ;  and  this  quality 
in  him  had  very  naturally  displeased  Jeffrey,  and  had 
served  to  blind  him,  at  least  in  some  degree,  to  the  actual 
greatness  of  Carlyle’s  powers.  In  this  letter  Jeffrey  frankly 
admitted  that  he  disliked  the  wrangling  to  which  Carlyle 
treated  him.  Hever  having  had  much  of  a  creed  himself, 
he  thought  he  had  daily  less  ;  and  having  no  tendency  to 
dogmatism  and  no  impatience  of  indecision,  he  thought 
zeal  for  creeds  and  anxiety  about  positive  opinions  more 
and  more  ludicrous.  In  fact,  he  regarded  discussions  which 
aimed  at  more  than  exercising  the  faculties  and  exposing 
intolerance  very  tiresome  and  foolish. 

But  for  all  that  he  invited  Carlyle  with  genuine  hearti¬ 
ness  to  come  down  from  his  mountains  and  join  thfe  Christ¬ 
mas  party  at  Craigcrook.  Carlyle  professed  to  be  a  lover 
of  his  fellow-creatures.  Jeffrey  said  he  had  no  patience 
with  a  philanthropy  that  drew  people  into  the  desert  and 
made  them  fly  from  the  face  of  man. 

The  good-humoured  tone  of  his  letter,  and  the  pleasant 
banter  of  it,  ending  as  it  did  with  reiterated  professions  of 


The  Astronomy  Professor  ship. 


319 


a  willingness  to  serve  Carlyle  if  an  opportunity  offered, 
made  it  natural  on  Carlyle’s  part  to  apply  to  him  when  an 
opportunity  did  present  itself  immediately  after.  Jeffrey's 
letter  had  been  written  on  December  8.  Three  weeks 
later  the  news  of  the  intended  Astronomy  Professorship 
reached  Craigenputtock,  while  Carlyle  was  told  also  that 
Jeffrey  would  probably  have  the  decisive  voice  in  the  ap¬ 
pointment.  Carlyle  wrote  to  him  at  once  to  ask  for  his 
good  word,  and  there  came  by  return  of  post  the  answer 
which  he  calls  the  ‘  lisli woman’s  shriek,’  and  which  it  is 
clear  that  he  never  forgave.  For  some  reason — for  the 
reason,  possibly,  which  Carlyle  surmised,  that  he  expected 
the  situation  to  be  given  to  his  own  secretary — Jeffrey  was 
certainly  put  out  by  being  taken  thus  at  his  word  when  he 
had  volunteered  to  be  of  use. 

Impatiently,  and  even  abruptly,  he  told  Carlyle  that  he 
had  no  chance  of  getting  the  Astronomy  Chair,  and  that 
it  would  be  idle  for  him  (Jeffrey)  to  ask  for  it.  The  ap¬ 
pointment  was  entirely  out  of  his  own  sphere,  and  he  would 
be  laughed  at  if  ire  interfered.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
most  promising  candidate  was  his  secretary,  a  gentleman 
who  had  already  been  nominated  for  the  Observatory  at 
the  Cape,  and  wished  to  go  through  some  preliminary  ob¬ 
serving  work  at  Edinburgh.  But  this  gentleman,  he  said, 
had  not  applied  to  him  for  a  recommendation,  but  trusted 
to  his  own  merits.  It  was  matter  of  notoriety  that  no  tes¬ 
timonial  would  be  looked  at  except  from  persons  of  weight 
and  authority  in  that  particular  branch  of  science,  and  he 
was  perfectly  certain — indeed  he  knew — that  the  Govern¬ 
ment  would  be  entirely  guided  by  their  opinions.  The 
place  would  be  given,  and  it  was  difficult  to  say  that  it 
ought  not  to  be  given,  according  to  the  recommendations 
of  Herschel,  Airy,  Babbage,  and  six  or  seven  other  men  of 
unquestionable  eminence  in  the  astronomical  department, 
without  the  least  regard  to  unprofessional  advisers.  If 


320 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


Carlyle  could  satisfy  them  that  he  was  the  fittest  person 
for  the  place,  he  might  be  sure  of  obtaining  it ;  if  he  could 
not,  he  might  be  equally  sure  that  it  was  needless  to  think 
of  it.  Whether  Carlyle’s  scientific  qualifications  were  such 
that  he  would  be  able  to  satisfy  them,  Jeffrey  would  not 
pretend  to  judge.  But  he  added  a  further  reason  for 
thinking  that  Carlyle  had  no  chance  of  success.  He  had 
had  no  practice  in  observing,  and  nobody  would  be  ap¬ 
pointed  wdio  was  not  both  practised  and  of  acknowledged 
skill.  Sir  David  Brewster  and  Lord  Hapier  looked  on  this 
as  the  most  important  qualification  of  all,  and  would  abate 
much  scientific  attainment  to  secure  tactical  dexterity  and 
acquired  habits  of  observation.  Herschel,  it  wras  said,  was 
of  the  same  opinion,  and  they  wTere  unlikely  to  trust  the 
handling  of  their  instruments  to  one  who  had  not  served 
an  apprenticeship  in  the  mechanical  parts  of  the  business. 
They  were  already  crying  out  about  the  mischief  which 
another  professor  had  occasioned  by  his  awkwardness,  mis¬ 
chief  which  it  would  cost  500/.  and  many  months  of  work 
to  repair.  The  place  to  be  given  was,  in  fact,  essentially 
an  observer’s  place,  there  being  little  expectation  that  a 
class  of  practical  astronomy  would  be  formed  out  of  the 
students  at  Edinburgh.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
therefore,  that  this  qualification  was  regarded  as  indispen¬ 
sable. 

Had  Jeffrey  stopped  here,  Carlyle  wxxuld  have  had  no 
right  to  complain.  It  is  probable,  but  after  all  it  is  not 
certain,  that  Carlyle  would  have  made  a  good  observer, 
even  if  the  technical  knowledge  could  have  been  acquired 
without  damage  to  the  equatorials.  Carlyle,  no  doubt,  was  a 
person  whom  the  electors  should  have  been  grateful  for 
the  opportunity  of  choosing,  if  they  had  known  what  his 
intellectual  powers  were  ;  but  it  is  not  clear  that  they  could 
have  known,  or  that  Jeffrey  could  have  persuaded  them  if 
he  had  tried.  The  4  secretary  ’  was  not  only  qualified  as  an 


321 


The  Astronomy  Professorship. 

observer,  but  be  bad  been  already  selected  for  a  most  re¬ 
sponsible  place  at  Capetown.  Brewster  could  bave  spoken 
for  Carlyle’s  knowledge  of  matbematics ;  but  mathematics 
alone  were  insufficient ;  and  in  fact  it  is  difficult  to  see  by 
what  reasons  any  conceivable  board  or  body  of  men  would 
bave  at  that  time  been  justified  in  preferring  Carlyle. 

But  Jeffrey  went  beyond  what  was  necessary  in  using 
the  occasion  to  give  Carlyle  a  lecture.  lie  was  very  sorry, 
be  said  ;  but  the  disappointment  revived  and  increased  the 
regret  which  he  bad  always  felt,  that  Carlyle  was  without 
the  occupation,  and  consequent  independence,  of  some  reg¬ 
ular  profession.  The  profession  of  teacher  was,  no  doubt, 
a  useful  and  noble  one ;  but  it  could  not  be  exercised  un¬ 
less  a  man  had  something  to  teach  which  was  thought 
worth  learning,  and  in  a  way  that  was  thought  agreeable ; 
and  neither  of  those  conditions  was  fulfilled  by  Carlyle. 
Jeffrey  frankly  said  that  he  could  not  set  much  value  on 
paradoxes  and  exaggerations,  and  no  man  ever  did  more 
than  Carlyle  to  obstruct  the  success  of  his  doctrines  by  the 
tone  in  which  he  set  them  forth.  It  was  arrogant,  obscure 
vituperation,  and  carried  no  conviction.  It  might  impress 
weak,  fanciful  minds,  but  it  would  only  revolt  calm,  candid, 
and  thoughtful  persons.  It  might  seem  harsh  to  speak  as  he 
was  doing ;  but  he  was  speaking  the  truth,  and  Carlyle 
was  being  taught  by  experience  to  know  that  it  was  the 
truth-.  Never,  never  would  he  find  or  make  the  world 
friendly  to  him  if  he  persisted  in  addressing  it  in  so  ex¬ 
travagant  a  tone.  One  thing  he  was  glad  to  find,  that 
Carlyle  was  growing  tired  of  solitude.  He  would  be  on 
his  way  to  amendment  if  he  would  live  gently,  humbly, 
and,  if  possible,  gaily,  with  other  men  ;  let  him  once  fairly 
come  down  from  the  barren  and  misty  eminence  where  he 
had  his  bodily  abode,  and  he  would  soon  be  reconciled  to  a 
no  less  salutary  intellectual  subsidence. 

Disagreeable  as  language  of  this  kind  might  be  to  Carlyle, 


3  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

4 

it  was,  after  all,  not  unnatural  from  Jeffrey’s  point  of  view ; 
and  there  was  still  nothing  in  it  which  he  was  entitled  to 
resent :  certainly  nothing  of  the  ‘  fishwoman.’  It  was  the 
language  of  a  sensible  man  of  the  world  who  had  long 
earnestly  endeavoured  to  befriend  Carlyle,  and  had  been 
thwarted  by  peculiarities  in  Carlyle’s  conduct  and  character 
which  had  neutralised  all  his  efforts.  There  was,  in  fact, 
very  little  in  what  Jeffrey  said  which  Carlyle  in  his  note¬ 
book  was  not  often  saying  to  and  of  himself.  We  must 
look  further  to  explain  the  deep,  ineffaceable  resentment 
which  Carlyle  evidently  nourished  against  Jeffrey  for  his 
behaviour  on  this  occasion.  The  Astronomical  chair  was 
not  the  only  situation  vacant  to  which  Carlyle  believed 
that  he  might  aspire.  There  was  a  Rhetoric  chair — whether 
at  Edinburgh  or  in  London  University,  I  am  not  certain. 
To  this  it  appears  that  there  had  been  some  allusion,  for 
Jeffrey  went  on  to  say  that  if  he  was  himself  the  patron 
of  that  chair  he  would  appoint  Carlyle,  though  not  without 
misgivings.  But  the  University  Commissioners  had  de¬ 
cided  that  the  Rhetoric  chair  was  not  to  be  refilled  unless 
some  man  of  great  and  established  reputation  was  willing 
to  accept  it,  and  such  a  man  Jeffrey  said  he  could  not  in 
his  conscience  declare  Carlyle  to  be.  Had  it  been  Macaulay 
that  was  the  candidate,  then,  indeed,  the  Commissioners 
would  see  their  way.  Macaulay  was  the  greatest  of  living 
Englishmen,  not  excepting  the  great  Brougham  himself. 
But  Carlyle  was — Carlyle.  It  was  melancholy  and  pro¬ 
voking  to  feel  that  perversions  and  absurdities  (for  as  such 
alone  he  could  regard  Carlyle’s  peculiar  methods  and  doc¬ 
trines)  were  heaping  up  obstacles  against  his  obtaining 
either  the  public  position  or  the  general  respect  to  which 
his  talents  and  his  diligence  would  have  otherwise  entitled 
him.  As  long  as  society  remained  as  it  was  and  thought 
as  it  did,  there  was  not  the  least  chance  of  his  ever  being 
admitted  as  a  teacher  into  any  regular  seminary. 


323 


The  Astronomy  Professorship). 

There  was  no  occasion  for  Jeffrey  to  have  written  with 
such  extreme  harshness.  If  he  felt  obliged  to  expostulate, 
he  might  have  dressed  his  censures  in  a  kinder  form.  To 
Carlyle  such  language  was  doubly  wounding,  for  he  was 
under  obligations  to  Jeffrey,  which  his  pride  already  en¬ 
dured  with  difficulty,  and  the  tone  of  condescending  su¬ 
periority  was  infinitely  galling.  lie  was  conscious,  too, 
that  Jeffrey  did  not  understand  him.  Ilis  extravagances? 
as  Jeffrey  considered  them,  were  but  efforts  to  express 
thoughts  of  immeasurable  consequence.  From  his  boy¬ 
hood  upwards  he  had  struggled  to  use  his  faculties  hon¬ 
estly  for  the  best  purposes ;  to  consider  only  what  was 
true  and  good,  and  never  to  be  led  astray  by  any  worldly 
interest ;  and  for  reward  every  door  of  preferment  was 
closed  in  his  face,  and  poverty  and  absolute  want  seemed 
advancing  to  overwhelm  him.  If  he  was  tried  in  the  fire, 
if  he  bore  the  worst  that  the  wrorld  could  do  to  him  and 
came  out  at  last  triumphant,  let  those  who  think  that  they 
would  have  behaved  better  blame  Carlyle  for  his  occasional 
bursts  of  impatience  and  resentment.  High-toned  moral 
lectures  were  the  harder  to  bear  because  Goethe  far  off  in 
Germany  could  recognise  in  the  same  qualities  at  which 
Jeffrey  was  railing  the  workings  of  true  original  genius. 

Even  so  it  is  strange  that  Carlyle,  after  the  victory  had 
Ions:  been  won  when  his  trials  were  all  over  and  he  was 
standing  on  the  highest  point  of  literary  fame,  known, 
honoured,  and  admired  over  two  continents,  should  have 
nourished  still  an  evident  grudge  against  the  poor  Lord 
Advocate,  especially  as,  after  the  appearance  of  the  6  French 
Revolution,’  Jeffrey  had  freely  and  without  reserve  ac¬ 
knowledged  that  he  had  all  along  been  wrong  in  his  judg¬ 
ment  of  Carlyle.  One  expression  casually  let  fall  at  the 
end  of  one  of  Jeffrey’s  letters,  to  which  I  need  not  do  more 
than  allude,  contains  a  possible  explanation.  J eff rey  was 
always  gentlemanlike,  and  it  is  not  conceivable  that  he  in- 


324 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

tended  to  affront  Carlyle,  but  Carlyle  may  have  taken  the 
words  to  himself  in  a  sense  which  they  were  not  meant  to 
bear ;  and  a  misunderstanding,  to  which  self-respect  would 
have  forbidden  him  to  refer,  may  have  infected  his  recol¬ 
lections  of  a  friend  whom  he  had  once  cordially  esteemed, 
and  to  whom  both  he  and  his  brothers  were  under  obliga¬ 
tions  which  could  hardly  be  overrated.  But  this  is  mere 
conjecture.  It  may  be  simply  that  Jeffrey  had  once  led 
Carlyle  to  hope  for  his  assistance  in  obtaining  promotion 
in  the  world,  and  that  when  an  opportunity  seemed  to 
offer  itself,  the  assistance  was  not  given. 

Never  any  more  did  Carlyle  seek  admission  into  the 
beaten  tracks  of  established  industry.  He  was  impatient 
of  harness ,  and  had  felt  all  along  that  no  official  situation 
Avas  fit  for  him,  or  he  fit  for  it.  He  Avonld  have  endeav¬ 
oured  loyally  to  do  his  duty  in  any  position  in  which  he 
might  be  placed.  Never  would  he  have  accepted  employ¬ 
ment  merely  for  its  salary,  going  through  the  perfunctory 
forms,  and  reserving  his  best  powers  for  other  occupations. 
Anything  which  he  undertook  to  do  he  would  have  done 
with  all  his  might ;  but  he  would  have  carried  into  it  the 
stern  integrity  which  refused  to  bend  to  conventional  exi¬ 
gencies.  His  tenure  of  office,  whether  of  professor’s  chair 
or  of  office  under  government,  would  probably  have  been 
brief  and  would  have  come  to  a  violent  end.  He  never 
offered  himself  again,  and  in  later  times  when  a  professor¬ 
ship  might  have  been  found  for  him  at  Edinburgh,  he  re¬ 
fused  to  be  nominated.  He  called  himself  a  Bedouin,  and 
a  Bedouin  he  was ;  a  free  lance  oAving  no  allegiance  save 
to  his  Maker  and  his  OAvn  conscience. 

On  receiving  Jeffrey’s  letter,  he  adjusted  himself  reso* 
lutely  and  Avithout  complaining  to  the  facts  as  they  stood. 
He  determined  to  make  one  more  attempt,  either  at  Craig- 
enputtock  or  elseAvhere,  to  conquer  a  place  for  himself, 
and  earn  an  honest  livelihood  as  an  English  man  of  let- 


Last  Winter  at  Craigenjputtock. 


325 


ters.  If  that  failed,  he  had  privately  made  up  his  mind  to 
try  his  fortune  in  America,  where  he  had  learnt  from 
Emerson,  and  where  he  himself  instinctively  felt,  that  he 
might  expect  more  favourable  hearing.  lie  was  in  no 
hurry.  In  all  that  he  did  he  acted  with  a  deliberate  cir¬ 
cumspection  scarcely  to  have  been  looked  for  in  so  irri¬ 
table  a  man.  The  words  6  judicious  desperation,’  by  which 
he  describes  the  principle  on  which  he-  guided  his  earlier 
life,  are  exactly  appropriate. 

Including  Fraser’s  payments  for  6  Teufelsdrockh  ’  he  was 
possessed  of  about  two  hundred  pounds,  and  until  his 
brother  John  could  repay  him  the  sums  which  had  been 
advanced  for  his  education,  he  had  no  definite  prospect  of 
earning  any  more — a  very  serious  outlook,  but  he  did  not 
allow  it  to  discompose  him.  At  any  rate  he  had  no  debts ; 
never  had  a  debt  in  his  life  except  the  fifty  pounds  which 
he  had  borrowed  from  Jeffrey,  and  this  with  the  Advo¬ 
cate’s  loan  to  his  brother  was  now  cleared  off.  The  6  Dia¬ 
mond  Aecklace’  had  proved  unsaleable,  but  he  worked 
quietly  on  upon  it,  making  additions  and  alterations  as 
new  books  came  in.  He  was  not  solitary  this  winter.  In 
some  respects  he  was  worse  off  than  if  he  had  been  soli¬ 
tary.  With  characteristic  kindness  he  had  taken  charge 
of  the  young  Scotchman  whom  he  had  met  in  London, 
William  Glen,  gifted,  accomplished,  with  the  fragments 
in  him  of  a  true  man  of  genius,  but  with  symptoms  show¬ 
ing  themselves  of  approaching  insanity,  in  which  after  a 
year  or  two  he  sank  into  total  eclipse.  With  Glen,  half 
for  his  friend’s  sake,  he  read  Homer  and  mathematics. 
Glen,  who  was  a  good  scholar,  taught  Carlyle  Greek.  Car¬ 
lyle  taught  Glen  Aewtonian  geometry ;  in  the  intervals 
studying  hard  at  French  Devolution  history.  His  inward 
experience  lies  written  in  his  Diary. 

Saturday,  Jan.  11,  1834. — So  long  since  my  pen  was  put  to  paper 
here.  The  bustle,  the  confusion  has  been  excessive.  Above  three 


326 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

weeks  ago  by  writing  violently  I  finished  the  ‘  Diamond  Necklace,’ 
a  singular  sort  of  thing  which  is  very  far  from  pleasing  me. 
Scarcely  was  the  ‘Necklace’  laid  by  when  the  Glens  arrived,  and 
with  them  the  entirest  earthquake.  Nothing  could  be  done,  noth¬ 
ing  so  much  as  thought  of.  Archy  1  often  only  went  off  on  Sun¬ 
day  ;  William  not  near  so  ill  as  we  anticipated.  I  have  him  at 
geometry,  which  he  actually  learns ;  mean  to  begin  reading  Homer 
with  him.  Will  he  ever  recover?  We  have  hope  and  ought  to 
endeavour. 

Wednesday  gone  a  week  I  went  down  to  Dumfries  and  brought 
up  my  mother,  who  is  still  here  reading  and  sewing.  She  is  won¬ 
derfully  peaceful,  not  unhappy  ;  intrinsically  an  admirable  woman 
whom  I  ought  to  be  right  thankful  that  I  have  for  mother. 

Letter  from  Mill  about  a  new  Radical  Review  in  which  my  co¬ 
operation  is  requested.  Shall  be  ready  to  give  it  if  they  have  any 
payment  to  offer.  Dog’s-meat  Bazaar  which  you  enter  muffled  up, 
holding  your  nose,  with  ‘  Here,  you  master,  able  editor,  or  what¬ 
ever  your  name  is,  take  this  mess  of  mine  and  sell  it  for  me — at 
the  old  rate,  you  know.’  This  is  the  relation  I  am  forced  to  stand 
in  with  publishers  as  the  time  now  runs.  May  God  mend  it. 

Magazine  Fraser  writes  that  ‘  Teufelsdrockh  ’  excites  the  most 
unqualified  disapprobation — d  la  bonne  heure. 

Feb.  9. — Nothing  done  yet — nothing  feasible  devised.  Innumer¬ 
able  confused  half-thoughts  ;  a  kind  of  moulting  season  with  me ; 
very  disconsolate,  yet  tending,  as  I  believe  or  would  fain  believe, 
to  profit.  Almost  all  things  go  by  systole  and  diastole,  even  one’s 
spiritual  progress.  Neglect,  humiliation,  all  these  things  are 
good,  if  I  will  use  them  wisely.  From  the  uttermost  deeps  of 
darkness  a  kind  of  unsubduable  hope  rises  in  me ;  grows  stronger 
and  stronger. 

Began  Homer  two  weeks  ago  :  nearly  through  the  first  book  now 
• — like  it  very  considerably.  Simplicity,  sincerity,  the  singleness 
(not  quite  the  word)  and  massive  repose  as  of  an  ancient  picture. 
Indeed,  all  the  engravings  of  Pompeii  antiques,  and  such  like,  that 
I  have  seen  grow  singularly  present  with  me  as  I  read.  A  most 
quieting  wholesome  task  too  ;  will  persist  in  it.  Poor  Glen  is  my 


1  Brother  of  William  Glen. 


327 


Last  Winter  at  Craig ervputtock. 

very  sufficient  help  here.  Have  sent  for  Heyne,  Blackwell,  and 
other  books,  as  further  helps.  Dacier  here,  but  nearly  unproduc¬ 
tive  for  me. 

Read  ‘Beattie’s  Life,’  by  Sir  Wm.  Forbes  (from  Barjarg,  where 
I  was  some  days  ago),  Schneidermassig ,  religious  ‘  Gigmanity,’  yet 
lovable,  pitiable,  in  many  respects  worthy.  Of  all  literary  men, 
Beattie,  according  to  his  deserts,  was  perhaps  (in  those  times)  the 
best  rewarded ;  yet  alas  !  also,  at  length,  among  the  unhappiest. 
How  much  he  enjoyed  that  is  far  from  thee! — converse  with  minds 
congenial;  an  element  not  of  black  cattleism ,  but  of  refinement, 
plenty,  and  encouragement.  Repine  not ;  or,  what  is  more  to  be 
dreaded,  rebel  not. 

Feb.  13. — Reading  in  those  larger  quartos  about  the  Collier. 
Nearly  done  with  it  now.  View  of  the  rascaldom  of  Paris,  tragi¬ 
cal  at  this  distance  of  time  (for  where  is  now  that  reiving  and 
stealing,  that  squeaking  and  jabbering — of  lies  ?)  :  otherwise  un¬ 
profitable.  What  to  do  with  that  ‘Diamond  Necklace’  affair  I 
wrote  ?  must  correct  it  in  some  parts  which  these  new  books  have 
illuminated  a  little. 

Letter  from  Jeffrey  indicating  that  he  can  or  will  do  nothing  in 
the  ‘  Rhetoric  Professor  ’  business  had  I  resolved  on  trying  him. 
Better  to  be  done  with  all  that  business,  and  know  that  I  have 
nothing  to  hope  for  in  that  quarter,  or  any  such,  and  adjust  myself 
thereto.  Rebel  not ;  be  still ;  still  and  strong  ! 

Finished  the  first  book  of  Homer  last  night.  Pleasantest  most 
purely  poetical  reading  I  have  had  for  long.  Simplicity  (not  mul¬ 
tiplicity),  almost  vacuity,  yet  sincerity,  and  the  richest  toned  art¬ 
less  music.  The  question  at  present  with  me,  What  does  he  mean 
by  his  gods  ?  In  the  question  of  belief  some  light  to  be  sought 
from  Homer  still ;  he  is  still  far  from  clear  to  me. 

Bulwer’s  ‘  England  and  the  English  ’ : 

Weightiest  of  harrows,  what  horse  will  ply  it? 

Cheeriest  of  sparrows  meanwhile  will  try  it. 

Intrinsically  a  poor  creature  this  Bulwer  ;  has  a  bustling  whisk¬ 
ing  agility  and  restlessness  which  may  support  him  in  a  certain 
degree  of  significance  with  some,  but  which  partakes  much  of  the 
nature  of  levity.  Nothing  truly  notable  can  come  of  him  or  of  it. 


328 


Life  of  Thomas  Cailyle. 

Sunday ,  Feb.  16. — Beautiful  days ;  this  is  the  third  of  them. 
Unspeakably  grateful  after  the  long  loud  howling  deluge  of  a 
winter.  Blackbirds  singing  this  morning — had  I  not  been  so  sick  ! 

9 

Friday ,  Feb.  21. — Still  reading,  but  with  indifferent  effect. 
Homer  still  grateful — grows  easier ;  one  hundred  lines  *have  been 
done  more  than  once  in  an  evening.  Was  Thersites  intended  to 
have  any  wit,  humour,  or  even  fun  in  his  raillery  ?  Nothing  (with 
my  actual  knowledge  of  Greek)  comes  to  light  but  mere  beggarly 
abuse,  and  miry  blackguardism.  When  Ulysses  weals  his  back 
with  that  bang  of  his  sceptre,  how  he  sinks  annihilated  like  a 
cracked  bug !  Mark  too  the  sugar-loaf  head,  bald  but  for  down  ; 
the  squint,  the  shoulders  drawn  together  over  his  back :  a  perfect 
beauty  in  his  kind.  How  free  otherwise  is  Ulysses  with  his  scep¬ 
tre  !  ‘Whatever  man  of  the  A^/xor  he  met’  he  clanked  him  over 
the  crown.  It  does  not  seem  to  me  so  incredible  as  it  did,  that 
opinion  of  Voss’s.  The  ‘  characters  ’  in  Homer,  might  they  not  be 
like  the  pantaloon,  harlequin,  &c.  of  the  Italian  comedy,  and  sus¬ 
tained  (what  is  there  meant  by  sustaining  ?)  by  various  hands  ? 
One  thing  is  clear,  and  little  more  to  me  at  present.  The  whole  is 
very  old.  ‘  Achilles  sitting  weeping  by  the  hoary  beach  looking 
out  into  the  dark-coloured  sea  ;  ’  still,  einfach ,  with  a  kind  of 
greatness. 

Mein  Leben  geht  sehr  ubel:  all  dim,  misty,  squally,  disheartening, 
at  times  almost  heart-breaking.  Nevertheless  it  seems  to  me  clear 
that  I  am  in  a  growing  state  :  call  this  a  moulting  season  for  the 
mind ;  say  I  shall  come  out  of  it  new  coated,  made  young  again ! 

Yesterday  we  for  the  first  time  spoke  seriously  of  setting  off  for 
London  to  take  up  our  abode  there  next  Whitsunday.  Nothing 
but  the  wretcliedest,  forsaken,  discontented  existence  here,  where 
almost  your  whole  energy  is  spent  in  keeping  yourself  from  flying 
out  into  exasj^eration.  I  had  never  much  hope  of  foreign  help  : 
perhaps  the  only  man  I  put  even  a  shadow  of  dependence  upon 
was  Jeffrey;  and  he  has,  two  or  three  weeks  ago,  convinced  me 
that  he  will  never  do  anything  for  me ;  that  he  dares  not ;  that  be 
cannot :  that  he  does  not  wish  to  do  it.  Why  not  try  for  ourselves, 
while  as  yet  we  have  strength  left,  and  old  age  has  not  finally 
lamed  us?  Andar  con  Dios!  Unutterable  thoughts  are  in  me, 
and  these  words  are  but  faint  chirpings.  May  God  direct  us  and 
go  with  us!  My,ppor  mother!  But  once  for  all  one  must  cut 


Last  Winter  at  CraigervputtocJc . 


329 


himself  loose  though  his  heart  bleed ;  it  is  better  than  perennial 
torpor  which  ends  in  death. 

March  25. — Strange  days  these  are  ;  again  quite  original  days  in 
my  life.  Cannot  express  any  portion  of  their  meaning  in  words; 
cannot  even  try  it. 

I  dig  the  garden  flower-beds,  though  not  hoping  to  see  them 
spring.  It  is  a  bodeful,  huge  feeling  I  have,  like  one  to  be  deliv¬ 
ered  from  a  Bastille ;  and  who  says,  delivered  ?  or  cast  out  ? 

Thousand  voices  speak  to  me  from  the  distance  out  of  the  dim 
depths  of  the  old  years.  I  sit  speechless.  If  I  live,  I  shall  speak. 

Many  things  are  sad  to  me  :  the  saddest  is  to  forsake  my  poor 
mother  ;  for  it  is  kind  of  forsaking,  though  she,  too,  sees  well  the 
necessity  of  it.  May  He  to  whom  she  ever  looks  not  forsake  her ! 

Be  still,  be  wise,  be  brave  !  The  world  is  all  before  thee  ;  its 
pains  will  soon  (how  very  soon)  be  over ;  the  work  to  be  done  in 
it  will  continue — through  eternity.  Oh,  how  fearful,  yet  how 
great  ! 

So  far  the  Diary.  The  letters,  or  portions  of  them,  fill 
the  internal  between  the  notes,  and  wind  up  the  story  of 
the  Carlyles’  life  in  the  Dumfriesshire  highlands. 

To  John  Carlyle,  Rome. 

Craigenputtock  :  January  21,  1834. 

On  Wednesday  gone  a  fortnight  I  drove  down  to  Dumfries  to 
fetch  up  our  mother,  who  had  been  waiting  at  Jean’s  there  for  sev¬ 
eral  days.  We  got  home  betimes  ;  found  Archy  Glen  and  William, 
the  former  of  whom  went  off  on  the  following  day  and  left  us  a 
little  more  composure.  My  mother  was  wonderfully  cheerful  and 
composed.  She  read  various  things — Campan’s  ‘  Memoirs,’  and 
such  like,  with  great  interest ;  sewed  a  little,  smoked  and  talked, 
and,  on  the  whole,  was  very  tolerably  off.  Her  calmness  in  the 
midst  of  so  many  vicissitudes,  and  now  while  her  immediate  future 
is  still  so  problematical,  was  very  gratifying  to  me  ;  showed  the 
admirable  spirit  she  is  of.  It  is  one  of  the  saddest  possibilities 
now  that  lies  before  me,  the  losing  of  such  a  parent.  One  thing 
with  another,  and  altogether  apart  from  natural  affection,  I  have 


330 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


seen  no  woman  in  the  whole  world  whom  I  would  lip^e  preferred 
as  a  mother.  On  the  following  Sunday  Alick  and  Jamie  both  ar¬ 
rived,  so  that  again  we  had  a  full  house.  They  stayed  till  Wed¬ 
nesday  morning,  when  I  accompanied  them  as  far  as  Stroqulian  ; 
it  had  been  arranged  that  Alick  was  to  come  next  Saturday  to 
Dumfries  and  meet  our  mother  there  if  the  day  was  tolerable. 
She  and  I  accordingly  set  off ;  met  Alick  there,  who  had  his  cart, 
and  I  reyoked  poor  Harry  and  turned  back  again  to  the  solitude 
of  our  moors.  Our  mother  wTas  wrapped  to  all  lengths,  and,  hav¬ 
ing  the  wind  favourable,  I  hope  would  not  suffer  much  from 
cold. 

As  for  our  household  it  is  much  as  you  can  fancy  it.  Jane  contin¬ 
ues  in  a  tolerable,  in  an  improving  state  of  health,  though  the  last 
five  weeks  of  bustle  have  done  her  no  good.  I,  when  I  take  walk¬ 
ing  enough,  get  along  as  I  was  wont  in  that  particular.  Continued 
sickness  is  a  miserable  thing,  yet  one  learns  to  brave  it.  .  .  . 

What  you  say  of  periodicals  is  mournfully  true  ;  yet  it  is  true 
also  that  a  man  must  provide  food  and  clothes  for  himself  as  long 
as  he  honestly  can.  While  you  write  down  a  truth  you  do  an 
honest  duty,  were  the  devil  himself  your  editor,  and  all  fellow  con¬ 
tributors  mere  incubi.and  foul  creatures.  One  loses  repute  by  it, 
but  nothing  more  ;  and  must  front  that  loss  for  a  gain  which  is 
indispensable.  Indeed,  had  I  (written)  the  best  book  possible 
for  me,  I  see  not,  such  is  the  condition  of  things,  where  I  could  so 
much  as  get  it  printed.  Your  money,  my  dear  boy,  I  will  not  take 
at  this  time  till  you  are  settled  with  it,  and  making  more.  Come 
home,  and  let  us  settle  in  London  together,  and  front  the  world 
together,  and  see  whether  it  will  beat  us  !  Let  us  try  it.  And  in 
the  meanwhile  never  fear  but  I  hold  on  ;  now  as  ever  it  lies  with 
myself.  Mill  tells  me  that  he  and  Duller  and  a  number  of  Radi¬ 
cals  with  money  capital,  and  what  they  reckon  talents,  have  deter¬ 
mined  on  a  new  Radical  Review,  which  they  want  me  to  write  in. 
Unitarian  Fox  is  to  be  editor.  I  calculate  that  it  may  last  three 
years  at  any  rate,  for  money  is  found  to  that  length.  If  they  pay 
me  rightly  they  shall  have  a  paper  or  two  ;  if  not,  not.  The  Radi¬ 
cals  I  say  always  are  barren  as  Sahara,  but  not  poisonous.  In  my 
prophecy  of  the  WTorld  they  are  my  erf  ants  per  dug,  whom  I  hon¬ 
estly  wish  well  to.  James  Fraser  writes  me  that  ‘  Teufelsdrockh  ’ 
meets  with  the  most  unqualified  disapproval,  which  is  all  ex¬ 
tremely  proper.  His  payment  arrives,  which  is  still  more  proper. 
On  the  whole,  dear  Jack,  it  is  a  contending  world ;  and  he  that 


Last  Winter  at  Craig enjputtock. 


331 


is  born  int^  it  mnst  fight  for  his  place  or  lose  it.  If  we  are  under 
the  right  flag,  let  the  world  do  its  worst  and  heartily  welcome. 

God  bless  thee,  dear  brother  !  Auf  ewig.  T.  Caklyle. 

*  ■+ 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

'  January  28,  1834. 

I  wrote  to  poor  Jeffrey,  but  not  till  any  anger  I  felt  had  gone  off, 
and  given  place  to  a  kind  of  pity.  ‘  Poor  fellow  !  ’  I  thought : 
‘  what  a  miserable  fuff  thou  gettest  into,  poor  old  exasperated 
politician  !  I  will  positively  have  pity  on  thee,  and  do  thee  a  lit¬ 
tle  good  if  I  can  !  ’  In  this  spirit  was  my  letter  written ;  a  short 
careless  letter  winding  up  the  business  handsomely,  not  ravelling 
it  further.  He  is  off  to  London  to-day  I  fancy,  to  worry  and  be 
worried  in  that  den  of  discord  and  dishonesty ;  actually,  I  doubt, 
to  lose  his  last  allotment  of  health,  almost  his  life,  if  he  be  not 
soon  delivered.  ‘He  cannot  hinder  thee  of  God’s  providence,’  is 
also  a  most  precious  truth  :  not  he  nor  the  whole  world  with  the 
Devil  to  back  it  out !  This  is  a  fact  one  ought  to  lay  seriously 
to  heart  and  see  into  the  meaning  of.  Did  we  see  it  rightly, 
what  were  there  beneath  the  moon  that  should  throw  us  into  com¬ 
motion  ?  Except  writing  letters,  I'  have  not  put  pen  to  paper  yet. 
I  sent  word  to  Mill  that  I  would  write  tftvo  essavs  for  his  new 

t/ 

periodical,  the  second  of  which  is  perhaps  to  be  on  John  Knox  ; 
but  I  suppose  there  is  no  great  hurry. 

To  Alexander  Carlyle. 

February  18,  1834. 

.  .  .  Poor  Mrs.  Clow  it  seems  has  been  called  away.  She  was 
not  long  left  a  superfluity  in  the  world,  but  has  found  a  home  be¬ 
side  her  old  partner  where  there  will  be  none  to  grudge  her.  Oh 
Time  !  Time  !  how  it  brings  forth  and  devours  !  And  the  roaring 
flood  of  existence  rushes  on  for  ever  similar,  for  ever  changing ! 
Already  of  those  that  we  looked  up  to  as  grown  men,  as  towers  of 
defence  and  authority  in  our  boyhood,  the  most  are  clean  gone. 
We  ourselves’' have  stept  into  their  position,  where  also  we  cannot 
linger.  Unhappy  they  that  have  no  footing  in  eternity  ;  for  here 
in  time  all  is  but  cloud  and  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision ! 

But  to  turn  back  to  the  earth ;  for  in  the  earth  too  lies  the 
pledge  of  a  higher  world — namely,  a  duty  allotted  us.  Tell  me, 
my  dear  brother,  how  you  fare  on  that  wild  Knowliead,  what  kind 
of  cheer  you  are  of.  The  little  children  I  imagine  must  be  your 
chief  blessing;  and  surely  ypu  are  thankful  for  them,  and  will 


332 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


struggle  with  your  whole  strength  to  instruct  them^nd  protect 
them,  and  fit  them  for  the  long  journey  (long,  for  it  is  as  long  as 
eternity)  that  lies  before  them.  Little  Jane  will  be  beginning  to 
have  many  notions  of  things  now.  Train  her  to  this  as  the  corner- 
stone  of  all  morality  :  to  stand  by  the  truth ;  to  abhor  a  lie  as  she 
does  hell-fire.  Actually  the  longer  I  live  I  see  the  greater  cause  to 
look  on  falsehood  with  detestation,  with  terror,  as  the  beginning 
of  all  else  that  is  of  the  Devil.  My  poor  little  namesake  has  no 
knowledge  of  good  or  evil  yet ;  but  I  hope  he  will  grow  to*be  a 
strong  man  and  do  his  name  credit.  For  yourself,  I  am  glad  to 
see  you  make  so  manful  a  struggle  on  that  uncomfortable  clay 
footing,  which  however  you  must  not  quite  quarrel  with.  In 
the  darkest  weather  I  always  predict  better  days.  The  world  is 
God’s  world,  and  wide  and  fair.  If  they  hamper  us  too  far  we 
will  try  another  side  of  it.  Meanwhile  I  will  tell  you  a  fault  you 
have  to  guard  against,  and  is  not  that  the  truest  friendship  that  I 
can  show  you  ?  Every  position  of  man  has  its  temptation,  its  evil 
tendency.  Now  yours  and  mine  I  suspect  to  be  this  :  a  tendency 
to  imperiousness,  to  indignant  self-help,  and  if  nowise  theoreti¬ 
cal,  yet  practical,  forgetfulness  and  tyrannical  contempt  of  other 
men.  This  is  wrongs  this  is  tyranny ,  I  say  ;  and  we  ought  to 
guard  against  it.  Be  merciful ;  repress  much  indignation  ;  too 
much  of  it  will  get  vent  after  all.  Evil  destiny  is  nothing  ;  let  it 
labour  us  and  impoverish  us  as  it  will,  if  it  only  do  not  lame  and 
distort  us.  Alas  !  I  feel  well  one  cannot  wholly  help  even  this  ; 
but  we  ought  unweariedly  to  endeavour. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Rome. 

Craigenputtock  :  February  25,  1834 

We  learned  incidentally  last  week  that  Grace,  our  servant, 
though  ‘  without  fault  to  us,’  and  whom  we  with  all  her  inertness 
were  nothing  but  purposing  to  keep,  had  resolved  on  ‘  going  home 
next  summer.’  The  cup  that  had  long  been  filling  ran  over  wfitli 
that  smallest  of  drops.  After  meditating  on  it  for  a  few  minutes, 
we  said  to  one  another :  ‘  Why  not  bolt  out.  of  all  these  sooty  des- 
picabilities,  of  Kerrags  and  lying  draggle-tails  of  byre-women, 
and  peat-moss  and  isolation  and  exasperation  and  confusion,  and 
go  at  once  to  London  ?  Gedacht,  gethan  !  Two  days  after  we  had 
a  letter  on  the  road  to  Mrs.  Austin,  to  look  out  among  the  ‘  houses 
to  let  ’  for  us,  and  an  advertisement  to  Mac  Diarmid  to  try  for  the 
letting  of  our  own.  Since  then,  you  may  fancy,  our  heads  and 


Removal  to  London. 


333 


hearts  have  been  full  of  this  great  enterprise,  the  greatest  (small 
as  it  is)  that  I  ever  knowingly  engaged  in.  We  bring  anxiously 
together  all  the  experience  we  have  gathered  or  got  reported,  look¬ 
back  and  look  forward,  make  the  bravest  resolutions,  and  in  fine 
seem  to  see  a  trembling  hope  that  we  may  master  the  enterprise 
(of  an  honest  life  in  London) ;  at  all  events,  a  certainty  that  we 
ought  to  try  it.  Yes,  we  must  try  it !  Life  here  is  but  a  kind  of 
life-in-deatli,  or  rather,  one  might  say,  a  not-being-born :  one  sits 
as  in  the  belly  of  some  Trojan  horse,  weather  screened,  but  pining, 
inactive,  neck  and  heels  crushed  together.  Let  us  burst  it  in  the 
name  of  God !  Let  us  take  such  an  existence  as  He  will  give  us, 
working  where  work  is  to  be  found  while  it  is  called  to-day.  A 
strange  shiver  runs  through  every  nerve  of  me  when  I  think  of 
taking  that  plunge  ;  yet  also  a  kind  of  sacred  faith,  sweet  after 
the  dreary  vacuity  of  soul  I  have  through  long  seasons  lived  in  as 
under  an  eclipsing  shadow.  I  purpose  to  be  prudent,  watchful  of 
my  words,  to  look  well  about  me,  and  with  all  the  faculty  I  have 
pick  my  steps  in  that  new  arena.  Thousands  of  sillier  fellows  than 
I  flourish  in  it  :  the  whole  promotion  I  strive  for  is  simplest  food 
and  shelter  in  exchange  for  the  honestest  work  I  can  do. 

We  purpose  for  many  reasons  to  make  this  a  whole  measure,  not 
a  half  one :  thus  the  first  thing  will  be  to  give  up  our  establish¬ 
ment  here,  to  sell  off  all  the  furniture  but  what  will  equip  a  very 
modest  house  in  the  suburbs  of  London ;  to  let  this  house  if  we 
can  ;  if  we  cannot,  to  let  it  stand  there  and  not  waste  more  money. 
This  Jane  calls  a  ‘  burning  of  our  ships,’  which  suits  better  with 
our  present  aims  than  anything  else  would.  For  indeed  I  feel 
this  is  as  if  the  last  chance  I  shall  ever  have  to  redeem  my  exist¬ 
ence  from  pain  and  imprisonment,  and  make  something  of  the 
faculty  I  have,  before  it  be  for  ever  hid  from  my  eyes.  No  look¬ 
ing  back  then !  Forward !  Advance  or  perish !  We  imagine 
some  suburban  house  may  be  got  for  40/.  Leigh  Hunt  talked 
much  about  a  quite  delightful  one  he  had  (for  ‘  ten  children  ’  too) 
at  Chelsea,  all  wainscoted,  &c.,  for  thirty  guineas.  With  200/.  we 
fancy  the  rigour  of  economy  may  enable  us  to  meet  the  year.  I 
must  work  and  seek  work ;  before  sinking  utterly  I  will  make  an 
‘a-fu’  struggle. 

Our  dear  mother  has  not  heard  of  this ;  for  though  I  wrote  to 
Alick  a  week  ago,  it  was  not  then  thought  of.  It  will  be  a  heavy 
stroke,  yet  not  quite  unanticipated,  and  she  will  brave  it.  My 
brother  and  she  are  the  only  ties  I  have  to  Scotland.  I  will  tell 


334 


TAfe  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


her  that  though  at  a  greater  distance  we  are  not  to  be  disunited. 
Regular  letters — frequent  visits.  I  will  say  who  knows  but  what 
you  and  I  may  yet  bring  her  up  to  London  to  pass  her  old  days 
waited  on  by  both  of  us?  Go  whither  she  may,  she  will  have  her 
Bible  with  her  and  her  faith  in  God.  She  is  the  truest  Christian 
believer  I  have  ever  met  with;  nay  4  might  almost  say  the  only 
true  one. 

P.S.  from  Mrs.  Carlyle : — 

My  dear  Brother,  —Here  is  a  new  prospect  opened  up  to  us  with 
a  vengeance  !  Am  I  frightened  ?  Not  a  bit.  I  almost  wish  that 
I  felt  more  anxiety  about  our  future;  for  this  composure  is  not 
courage ,  but  diseased  indifference.  There  is  a  sort  of  incrustation 
about  the  inward  mo  which  renders  it  alike  insensible  to  fear  and 
to  hope.  I  suppose  1  am  in  what  Glen  calls  the  chrysalis  state  or 
the  stale  of  incubation.  I  jot  us  trust  that  like  all  other  states  which 
have  a  beginning  it  will  also  have  an  end,  and  that  the  poor  Psyche 
shall  at  last  get  freed.  I  n  the  meantime  X  do  what  I  see  to  be  my 
duty  as  well  as  I.  can  and  wish  that  I  could  do  it  better.  It  seems 
as  if  the  problem  of  living  would  be  immensely  simplified  to  me 
if  I  had  health.  I  t  does  require  such  an  ofibrt  to  keep  oneself  from 
growing  quite  wicked,  while  that  weary  weaver’s  shuttle  is  plying 
between  my  temples.  Unhappy  Medina,  &c. !  I  have  reason  to 
be  thankful  that  I  havo  had  less  sickness  this  winter  than  in  the 
two  preceding  ones,  which  I  attribute  partly  to  the  change  in  my 
pills.  Your  njecipe  is  worn  to  tatters,  but  Glen  copied  it  for  me. 
The  note  book  you  gave  mo  is  half  filled  with  such  multifarious 
matter!  No  mortal  gets  a  glimpse  of  it.  I  wish  Carlyle  would 
let  me  begin  a  letter  instead  of  ending  it.  He  leaves  me  nothing 
but  dregs  to  impart.  Would  you  recommend  me  to  sup  on  por¬ 
ridge  and  beer?  Carlyle  takes  it.  Wo  have  got  a  dear  little 
canary  bird  winch  we  call  Chico,  which  sings  all  day  long  ‘like — 
like  anything.’ 

Ho  ends  tho  last  letter  from  Oraigenputtoek.  ‘The  ships 
were  burnt,’  two  busy  months  being  spent  in  burning  them 
— disposing  of  old  books,  old  bedsteads,  kitchen  things,  all 
the  rubbish  of  the  establishment.  The  cows  and  poultry 
were  sold.  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  pony  was  sent  to  Scotsbrig. 
Friends  in  London  were  busy  looking  out  for  houses. 
Carlyle,  unable  to  work  in  the  confusion,  grew  unbearable, 


Removal  to  London. 


335 


naturally  enough,  to  himself  and  everyone,  and  finally,  at 
the  beginning  of  May,  rushed  off  alone,  believing  that 
house  letting  in  London  was  conducted  on  the  same  rule 
as  in  Edinburgh,  and  that  unless  he  could  secure  a  home 
for  himself  at  Whitsuntide  he  would  have  to  wait  till  the 
year  had  gone  round.  In  this  hurried  fashion  he  took  his 
own  departure,  leaving  his  wife  to  pack  what  they  did  not 
intend  to  part  with,  and  to  follow  at  her  leisure  when  the 
new  habitation  had  been  decided  on.  Mill  had  sent  his 
warmest  congratulations  when  he  learnt  that  the  final  reso¬ 
lution  had  been  taken.  Carlyle,  who  had  settled  himself 
while  house  hunting  at  his  old  lodgings  in  Ampton  Street, 
sent  his  brother  John  a  brief  account  of  his  final  leave- 
taking  of  Scotland. 

To  John  Carlyle. 

4  Ampton  Street :  May  1 8. 

With  regard  to  our  dear  mother,  I  bid  you  comfort  yourself  with 
the  assurance  that  she  is  moderately  well.  She  adjusts  herself 
with  the  old  heroism  to  the  new  circumstances ;  agrees  that  I  must 
come  hither ;  parts  from  me  with  the  stillest  face,  more  touching 
than  if  it  had  been  all  beteared.  I  said  to  Alick  as  we  drove  up 
the  Purdamstown  brae  that  morning,  that  I  thought  if  I  had  all 
the  mothers  I  ever  saw  to  choose  from  I  would  lia\e  chosen  my 
own.  She  is  to  have  Harry, 1  and  can  ride  very  well  6n  him,  will 
go  down  awhile  to  sea-bathing  at  Mary’s,  and  will  spend  the  sum¬ 
mer  tolerably  enough.  For  winter  I  left  her  the  task  of  spinning 
me  a  plaid  dressing  gown,  with  which  if  she  get  too  soon  done  she 
may  spin  another  for  you.  She  has  books,  above  all  her  Book. 
She  trusts  in  God,  and  shall  not  be  put  to  shame.  While  she  was 
at  Craigenputtock  I  made  her  train  me  to  two  song  tunes ;  and  we 
often  sang  them  together,  and  tried  them  often  again  in  coming 
down  into  Annandale.  One  of  them  I  actually  found  myself  hum¬ 
ming  with  a  strange  cheerfully  pathetic  feeling  when  I  first  came 
in  sight  of  huge  smoky  Babylon — 

For  there’s  seven  foresters  in  yon  forest. 

And  them  I  want  to  see,  see, 

And  them  I  want  to  see. 

I  wrote  her  a  little  note  yesterday  and  told  her  this. 

1  The  pony. 


336 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


Tims  tlie  six  years’  imprisonment  on  the  Dumfriesshire 
moors  came  to  an  end.  To  Carlyle  himself  they  had  been 
years  of  inestimable  value.  If  we  compare  the  essay  on 
Jean  Paul,  which  he  wrote  at  Comely  Bank,  with  the 
‘Diamond  Necklace,’  his  last  work  at  Craigenputtock,  we 
see  the  leap  from  promise  to  fulfilment,  from  the  imma¬ 
ture  energy  of  youth  to  the  full  intellectual  strength  of 
completed  manhood.  The  solitude  had  compelled  him  to 
digest  his  thoughts.  In  ‘  Sartor  ’  he  had  relieved  his  soul 
of  its  perilous  secretions  by  throwing  out  of  himself  his 
personal  sufferings  and  physical  and  spiritual  experience. 
ITe  had  read  omnivorously  far  and  wide.  His  memory 
w^as  a  magazine  of  facts  gathered  over  the  whole  surface 
of  European  literature  and  history.  The  multiplied  allu¬ 
sions  in  every  page  of  his  later  essays,  so  easy,  so  unla¬ 
boured,  reveal  the  wealth  which  he  had  accumulated,  and 
the  fulness  of  his  command  over  his  possessions.  His  re¬ 
ligious  faith  had  gained  solidity.  His  confidence  in  the 
soundness  of  his  own  convictions  was  no  longer  clouded 
with  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  The  6  History  of  the  French 
Devolution,’  the  most  powerful  of  all  his  works,  and  the 
only  one  which  has  the  character  of  a  work  of  art,  was  the 
production  of  the  mind  which  he  brought  with  him  from 
Craigenputtock,  undisturbed  by  the  contradictions  and  ex¬ 
citements  of  London  society  and  London  triumphs.  He 
had  been  tried  in  the  furnace.  Poverty,  mortification, 
and  disappointment  had  done  their  work  upon  him,  and 
he  had  risen  above  them  elevated,  purified,  and  strength¬ 
ened.  Even  the  arrogance  and  self-assertion  which  Lord 
Jeffrey  supposed  to  have  been  developed  in  him  by  living 
away  from  conflict  with  ether  minds,  had  been  rather  tamed 
than  encouraged  by  Iris  lonely  meditations.  It  was  rather 
collision  with  those  who  differed  with  him  which  fostered 
his  imperiousness  ;  for  Carlyle  rarely  met  with  an  antag¬ 
onist  whom  he  could  not  overbear  with  the  torrent  of  his 


337 


End  of  Craig ewputtock  Life. 

metaphors,  whilst  to  himself  his  note-hooks  show  that  he 
read  many  a  lecture  on  humility. 

He  had  laid  in,  too,  on  the  moors  a  stock  of  robust 
health.  Lamentations  over  indigestion  and  want  of  sleep 
are  almost  totally  absent  from  the  letters  written  from 
Craigenputtock.  The  simple,  natural  life,  the  wholesome 
air,  the  daily  rides  or  drives,  the  poor  food — milk,  cream, 
eggs,  oatmeal,  the  best  of  their  kind — had  restored  com¬ 
pletely  the  functions  of  a  stomach  never,  perhaps,  so  far 
wrong  as  he  had  imagined.  Carlyle  had  ceased  to  com¬ 
plain  on  this  head,  and  in  a  person  so  extremely  vocal 
when  anything  was  amiss  with  him,  silence  is  the  best 
evidence  that  there  was  nothing  to  complain  of.  On  the 
moors,  as  at  Mainhill,  at  Edinburgh,  or  in  London  after¬ 
wards,  he  was  always  impatient,  moody,  irritable,  violent. 
These  humours  were  in  his  nature,  and  could  no  more 
be  separated  from  them  than  his  body  could  leap  off  its 
shadow.  But,  intolerable  as  he  had  found  Craigenputtock 
in  the  later  years  of  his  residence  there,  he  looked  back  to  it 
afterwards  as  the  happiest  and  wholesomest  home  that  he 
had  ever  known.  ILe  could  do  fully  twice  as  much  work 
there,  he  said,  as  he  could  ever  do  afterwards  in  London ; 
and  many  a  time,  when  sick  of  fame  and  clatter  and  in¬ 
terruption,  he  longed  to  return  to  it. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle  Cragenputtock  had  been  a  less  salutary 
home.  She  might  have  borne  the  climate,  and  even  ben¬ 
efited  by  it,  if  the  other  conditions  had  been  less  ungenial. 
But  her  life  there,  to  begin  with,  had  been  a  life  of  menial 
drudgery,  unsolaced  (for  she  could  have  endured  and  even 
enjoyed  mere  hardship)  by  more  than  an  occasional  word 
of  encouragement  or  sympathy  or  compassion  from  her 
husband.  To  him  it  seemed  perfectly  natural  that  what 
his  mother  did  at  Scotsbrig  his  wife  should  do  for  him. 
Every  household  duty  fell  upon  her,  either  directly,  or  in 
supplying  the  shortcomings  of  a  Scotch  maid-of- all- work. 

Vol.  II.— 22 


888  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Slie  had  to  cook,  to  sew,  to  scour,  to  clean  ;  to  gallop  down 
alone  to  Dumfries  if  anything  was  wanted ;  to  keep  the 
house,  and  even  on  occasions  to  milk  the  cows.  Miss 
Jewsbury  has  preserved  many  anecdotes  of  the  Craigen- 
puttock  life,  showing  how  hard  a  time  her  friend  had  of 
it  there.  Carlyle,  though  disposed  at  first  to  dismiss  these 
memories  as  legends,  yet  admitted  on  reflection  that  for 
all  there  was  a  certain  foundation.  The  errors,  if  any,  can 
be  no  more  than  the  slight  alterations  of  form  which  sto¬ 
ries  naturally  receive  in  repetition.  A  lady  brought  up  in 
luxury  has  been  educated  into  physical  unfitness  for  so 
sharp  a  discipline.  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  bodily  health  never 
recovered  from  the  strain  of  those  six  years.  The  trial  to 
her  mind  and  to  her  nervous  system  was  still  more  severe. 
Nature  had  given  her,  along  with  a  powerful  understand¬ 
ing,  a  disposition  singularly  bright  and  buoyant.  The 
Irving  disappointment  had  been  a  blow  to  her  ;  but  wounds 
which  do  not  kill  are  cured.  They  leave  a  scar,  but  the 
pain  ceases.  It  was  long  over,  and  if  Carlyle  had  been  a 
real  companion  to  her,  she  would  have  been  as  happy  with 
him  as  wives  usually  are.  But  he  was  not  a  companion  at 
all.  When  he  was  busy  she  rarely  so  much  as  saw  him, 
save,  as  he  himself  pathetically  tells,  when  she  would  steal 
into  his  dressing-room  in  the  morning  when  he  was  shav¬ 
ing,  to  secure  that  little  of  his  society.  The  loneliness  of 
Craigenputtock  was  dreadful  to  her.  Her  hard  work,  per¬ 
haps,  had  so  far  something  of  a  blessing  in  it,  that  it  was 
a  relief  from  the  intolerable  pressure.  For  months  to¬ 
gether,  especially  after  Alick  Carlyle  had  gone,  they  never 
saw  the  face  of  guest  or  passing  stranger.  So  still  the 
moors  were,  that  she  could  hear  the  sheep  nibbling  the 
grass  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  For  the  many  weeks  when 
the  snow  was  on  the  ground  she  could  not  stir  beyond  the 
garden,  or  even  beyond  her  door.  She  had  no  great 
thoughts,  as  Carlyle  had,  to  occupy  her  with  the  adminis- 


End  of  CraigenputtocJc  Life. 


339 


tration  of  the  universe.  He  had  deranged  the  faith  in 
which  she  had  been  brought  up,  but  he  had  not  inoculated 
her  with  his  own  ;  and  a  dull  gloom,  sinking  at  last  almost 
to  apathy,  fell  upon  her  spirits.  She  fought  against  it, 
like  a  brave  woman  as  she  was.  Carlyle’s  own  views  of 
the  prospects  of  men  in  this  world  were  not  brilliant.  In 
his  ‘  Miscellanies  ’  is  a  small  poem,  written  at  Craigenput- 
tock,  called  £  Cui  Bono  ?  ’  giving  a  most  unpromising  sketch 
of  human  destiny  : — 

Cui  Bono? 

What  is  Hope  ?  a  smiling  rainbow 
Children  follow  through  the  wet ; 

’Tis  not  here,  still  yonder,  yonder  ! 

Never  urchin  found  it  yet. 

What  is  Life  ?  a  thawing  iceboard 
On  a  sea  with  sunny  shore. 

Gay  we  sail — it  melts  beneath  us  ! 

We  are  sunk,  and  seen  no  more. 

What  is  Man  ?  a  foolish  baby  ; 

Vainly  strives,  and  fights,  and  frets  ; 

Demanding  all — deserving  nothing  ! 

One  small  grave  is  what  he  gets. 

In  one  of  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  note-books,  I  find  an  ‘  Answer  5 
to  this,  dated  1830  : — 

Nay,  this  is  Hope  :  a  gentle  dove, 

That  nestles  in  the  gentle  breast, 

Bringing  glad  tidings  from  above 
Of  joys  to  come  and  heavenly  rest. 

And  this  is  Life  :  ethereal  fire 

Striving  aloft  through  smothering  clay ; 

Mounting,  flaming,  higher,  higher  ! 

Till  lost  in  immortality. 

And  Man — oh  !  hate  not  nor  despise 
The  fairest,  lordliest  work  of  God  ! 

Think  not  He  made  the  good  and  wise 
Only  to  sleep  beneath  the  sod  ! 


340 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

Carlyle  himself  recognised  occasionally  that  she  was 
not  happy.  Intentionally  unkind  it  was  not  in  his  na¬ 
ture  to  be.  After  his  mother,  he  loved  his  wife  better 
than  anyone  in  the  world.  He  was  only  occupied,  un¬ 
perceiving,  negligent ;  and  when  he  did  see  that  anything 
was  wrong  with  her,  he  was  at  once  the  tenderest  of  hus¬ 
bands. 

In  some  such  transient  state  of  consciousness  he  wrote, 
on  January  29,  1830  : — 


The  Sigh. 

Oh  !  sigh  not  so,  my  fond  and  faithful  wife, 

In  sad  remembrance  or  in  boding  fear  : 

This  is  not  life — this  phantasm  type  of  life  ! 

What  is  there  to  rejoice  or  mourn  for  here? 

Be  it  no  wealth,  nor  fame,  nor  post  is  ours — 

Small  blessedness  for  infinite  desire  ; 

But  has  the  King  his  wish  in  Windsor’s  towers  ? 

Or  but  the  common  lot — meat,  clothes,  and  fire  ? 

Lone  stands  our  home  amid  the  sullen  moor, 

Its  threshold  by  few  friendly  feet  betrod  ; 

Yet  we  are  here,  we  two,  still  true  though  poor : 

And  this,  too,  is  the  world — the  ‘  city  of  God  ’ ! 

O’erhangs  us  not  the  infinitude  of  sky, 

Where  all  the  starry  lights  revolve  and  shine  ? 

Does  not  that  universe  within  us  lie 
And  move — its  Maker  or  itself  divine  ? 

And  we,  my  love,  life’s  waking  dream  once  done, 

Shall  sleep  to  wondrous  lands  on  other’s  breast, 

And  all  we  loved  and  toiled  for,  one  by  one, 

Shall  join  us  there  and,  wearied,  be  at  rest. 

Then  sigh  not  so,  my  fond  and  faithful  wife, 

But  striving  well,  have  hope,  be  of  good  cheer ; 

Not  rest,  but  worthy  labour,  is  the  soul  of  life  ; 

Not  that  but  this  is  to  be  looked  and  wished  for  here. 


Old  Esther . 


341 


If  tlie  occasional  tenderness  of  these  lines  could  have 
been  formed  into  a  habit  Mrs.  Carlyle  might  have  borne 
Craigenputtock  less  impatiently,  and  as  her  bodily  ailments 
were  chiefly  caused  by  exposure  and  overwork,  she  would 
probably  have  escaped  the  worst  of  them,  because  she 
would  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  take  care  of  herself. 

Of  the  solitude  and  of  the  strange  figures  moving  about 
the  moor,  to  make  the  desolation  more  sensible,  Carlyle 
has  left  a  singular  picture. 

Old  Esther,  whose  death  came  one  of  our  early  winters,  was  a  bit 
of  memorability  in  that  altogether  vacant  scene.  I  forget  the  old 
woman’s  surname,  perhaps  McGeorge,  but  well  recall  her  heavy 
lumpish  figure,  lame  of  a  foot,  and  her  honest,  quiet,  not  stupid 
countenance  of  mixed  ugliness  and  stoicism.  She  lived  above  a 
mile  from  us  in  a  poor  cottage  of  the  next  farm.1  Esther  had  been 
a  laird’s  daughter  riding  her  palfrey  at  one  time,  but  had  gone  to 
wueck  father  and  self;  a  special  ‘misfortune’  (so  they  delicately 
name  it)  being  of  Esther’s  producing.  Misfortune  in  the  shape 
ultimately  of  a  solid  tall  ditcher,  very  good  to  his  old  mother 
Esther,  had  just  before  our  coming  perished  miserably  one  night 
on  the  shoulder  of  Dunscore  Hill  (found  dead  there  next  morning), 
which  had  driven  his  poor  old  mother  up  to  this  thriftier  hut  and 
silent  mode  of  living  in  our  moorland  part  of  the  parish.  She  did 
not  beg,  nor  had  my  Jeannie  much  to  have  given  her  of  help  (per¬ 
haps  on  occasions  milk,  old  warm  clothes,  &c.),  though  always 
very  sorry  for  her  last  sad  bereavement  of  the  stalwart  affectionate 
son.  I  remember  one  frosty  kind  of  forenoon,  while  walking 
meditative  to  the  top  of  our  hill,  the  silence  was  complete,  all  but 
one  ‘  click  clack  ’  heard  regularly  like  a  far-off  spondee  or  iambus, 
a  great  way  to  my  right,  no  other  sound  in  nature.  On  looking 
sharply,  I  discovered  it  to  be  old  Esther  on  the  highway,  crippling 
along,  towards  our  house  most  probably.  Poor  old  soul !  thought 
I.  What  a  desolation  !  But  you  will  meet  a  kind  face  too  per- 
haps.  Heaven  is  over  all. 

Not  long  after  poor  old  Esther  sank  to  bed — deathbed,  as  my 
Jane,  who  had  a  quick  and  sure  eye  in  these  things,  well  judged 
it  would  be.  Sickness  did  not  last  above  ten  days  :  my  poor  wife 

1  ‘  Carson’s,  of  Nether  Craigenputtock,  very  stupid  young  brother  used  to 
come  and  bore  me  at  rare  intervals. — T.  C.’ 


342 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


zealously  assiduous  and  with  a  minimum  of  fuss  and  noise.  I  re- 
member  those  few  j)oor  days  full  of  human  interest  to  her,  and 
through  her  to  me ;  and  of  a  human  pity  not  painful,  but  sweet 
and  genuine.  She  went  walking  every  morning,  especially  every 
night  to  arrange  the  poor  bed,  &c. — nothing  but  rudish  hands, 
rude  though  kind  enough,  being  about ;  the  poor  old  woman  evi¬ 
dently  gratified  by  it,  and  heart  thankful,  and  almost  to  the  very 
end  giving  clear  sign  of  that.  Something  pathetic  in  old  Esther 
and  her  exit ;  nay,  if  I  rightly  bethink  me,  that  ‘  click  clack  ’  pil¬ 
grimage  had  in  fact  been  a  last  visit  to  Craigenputtock  with  some 
poor  bit  of  crockery,  some  grey-lettered  butter-plate,  which  I 
used  to  see  ‘as  a  wee  memorandum  o’  me,  mem,  when  I  am  gone.’ 
‘Memorandum’  wTas  her  word,  and  I  remember  the  poor  little 
platter  for  years  after.  Poor  old  Esther  had  awoke  that  frosty 
morning  with  the  feeling  that  she  would  soon  die,  that  the  ‘  bonny 
leddv  ’  had  been  ‘  unco  guid  ’  to  her,  and  that  there  was  still  that 
‘  wee  bit  memorandum.’  Nay,  I  think  she  had,  or  had  once  had, 
the  remains  or  conrplete  ghost  of  a  ‘  fine  old  riding  habit,’  once 
her  own,  which  the  curious  had  seen,  but  this  she  had  judged  it 
more  polite  to  leave  to  the  parish. 

Enough  of  Craigenputtock.  The  scene  shifts  to  Lon¬ 
don. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


A.D.  1834.  iET.  39. 

Extracts  from  Journal. 

London:  May  24,  1834. — What  a  word  is  there  !  I  left  home  on 
Thursday  last  (five  days  ago),  and  see  myself  still  with  astonish¬ 
ment  here  seeking  houses.  The  parting  with  my  sister  Jean,  who 
had  driven  down  with  me  to  Dumfries,  was  the  first  of  the  partings  ; 
that  with  my  dear  mother  next  day,  with  poor  Mary  at  Annan, 
with  my  two  brothers  Alick  and  Jamie — all  these  things  were  to 
be  done.  Shall  we  meet  again  ?  Shall  our  meeting  again  be  for 
good?  God  grant  it.  We  are  in  his  hands.  This  is  all  the  com¬ 
fort  I  have.  As  to  my  beloved  and  now  aged  mother,  it  is  sore 
upon  me, — so  sore  as  I  have  felt  nothing  of  the  sort  since  boyhood. 
She  paid  her  last  visit  at  Craigenputtock  the  week  before,  and  had 
attached  me  much,  if  I  could  have  been  more  attached,  by  her 
quiet  way  of  taking  that  sore  trial.  She  studied  not  to  sink  my 
heart ;  she  shed  no  tear  at  parting ;  and  so  I  drove  off  with  poor 
Alick  in  quest  of  new  fortunes.  May  the  Father  of  all,  to  whom 
she  daily  prays  for  me,  be  ever  near  her  !  May  He,  if  it  be  his 
will,  grant  us  a  glad  re-meeting  and  re  union  in  a  higher  country. 
But  no  more  of  this.  Words  are  worse  than  vain.  I  am  here  in 
my  old  lodging  at  Ampton  Street,  wearied,  and  without  books, 
company,  or  other  resource.  The  Umpire  coach  from  Liverpool. 
Through  the  arch  at  Holloway  came  first  in  sight  of  huge  smoky 
London,  humming,  in  a  kind  of  defiance,  my  mother’s  tune  of 
‘Johnny  O'Cox.  ’  Find  this  lodging.  Mrs.  Austin  very  kind.  See 
several  houses.  Disappointed  in  all.  Kensington  very  dirty  and 
confused.  Sleep — sweet  sleep.  This  day  busy,  with  little  work 
clone ;  my  feet  all  lamed,  and  not  above  one  house  seen  that  in 
any  measure  looks  like  fitting. 

Went  to  Mrs.  Austin,  through  the  Park  and  Gardens.  Find  a 
Mrs.  Jamieson — a  shrewd-looking,  hard-tempered,  red-haired  wo- 


344 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


man,  whom  I  care  little  about  meeting  again.  Look  at  many 
houses  with  them.  Edward  Irving  starts  up  from  a  seat  in  Ken¬ 
sington  Gardens,  as  I  was  crossing  it  with  these  two,  and  runs  to¬ 
wards  me.  The  good  Edward  !  He  looked  pale,  worn,  unsound, 
very  unhealthy.  At  the  house  wre  were  going  to  no  key  could  be 
got :  no  this,  no  that.  Miss  my  dinner.  Innkeepers  can  give  me 
none.  Dine  with  a  dairyman  on  bread  and  milk  beside  his  cows 
—a  most  interesting  meal.  Charge  three  halfpence,  I  having  fur¬ 
nished  bread.  Gave  the  man  sixpence,  because  I  liked  him. 
Will  see  the  poor  fellow  again,  perhaps.  Hunt’s  1  household  in 
Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea.  Nondescript !  unutterable  !  Mrs.  Hunt 
asleep  on  cushions  ;  four  or  five  beautiful,  strange,  gipsy-looking 
children  running  about  in  undress,  whom  the  lady  ordered  to  get 
us  tea.  The  eldest  boy,  Percy,  a  sallow,  black-haired  youth  of 
sixteen,  with  a  kind  of  dark  cotton  nightgown  on,  went  whirling 
about  like  a  familiar,  providing  everything :  an  indescribable 
dreamlike  household.  Am  to  go  again  to-morrow  to  see  if  there 
be  any  houses,  and  what  they  are.  Bedtime  now,  and  so  good 
night,  ye  loved  ones.  My  heart’s  blessing  be  with  all ! 

Those  who  have  studied  Carlyle’s  writings  as  they  ought 
to  be  studied,  know  that  shrewd  practical  sense  underlies 
always  his  metaphorical  extravagances.  In  matters  of 
business  he  was  the  most  prudent  of  men.  He  had  left 
his  wife  at  Craigenputtoek  to  pack  up,  and  had  plunged, 
liimself,  into  the  whirlpool  of  house-hunting.  He  very 
soon  discovered  that  there  was  no  hurry,  and  that  he  was 
not  the  best  judge  in  such  matters.  He  understood — the 
second  best  form  of  wisdom — that  he  did  not  understand, 
and  forebore  to  come  to  any  resolution  till  Mrs.  Carlyle 
could  join  him.  He  wrote  to  her,  giving  a  full  account  of 
his  experiences. 

The  female  head  (he  said)  is  not  without  a  shrewdness  of  its 
own  in  these  affairs.  Moreover,  ought  not  my  little  qoagitor  to 
have  a  vote  herself  in  the  choice  of  an  abode  which  is  to  be  ours  ? 
The  sweet  word  ours  !  The  blessed  ordinance — let  Hunt  say  what 
he  will2 — by  which  all  things  are  for  ever  one  between  us  and 

1  Leigh  Hunt. 

,J  Leigh  Hunt  advocated  ‘  women’s  rights  ’  in  marriage  arrangements. 


Search  for  Houses. 


345 


separation  an  impossibility.  Unless  you  specially  order  it,  no 
final  arrangement  shall  be  made  till  we  both  make  it. 

Carlyle  liacl  not  been  idle — had  walked,  as  lie  said,  till 
his  feet  were  lamed  under  him.  lie  had  searched  in 
Krompton,  in  Kensington,  about  the  Kegent’s  Park.  lie 
had  seen  many  houses  more  or  less  desirable,  more  or  less 
objectionable.  For  himself  he  inclined  on  the  whole  to 
one  which  Leigh  Hunt  had  found  for  him  near  the  river 
in  Chelsea.  Leigh  Hunt  lived  with  his  singular  family  at 
Ho.  4  Upper  Cheyne  Kow.  About  sixty  yards  off,  about 
the  middle  of  Great  Cheyne  Kow,  which  runs  at  right 
angles  to  the  other,  there  was  a  house  which  fixed  his  at¬ 
tention.  Twice  he  went  over  it.  ‘  It  is  notable,’  he  said, 
‘  how  at  each  new  visit  your  opinion  gets  a  little  hitch  the 
contrary  way  from  its  former  tendency.  Imagination  has 
outgone  the  reality.  I  nevertheless  still  feel  a  great  liking 
for  this  excellent  old  house.  Chelsea  is  unfashionable  :  it 
was  once  the  resort  of  the  Court  and  great,  however  ;  hence 
numerous  old  houses  in  it  at  once  cheap  and  excellent.’ 

A  third  inspection  produced  a  fuller  description— de¬ 
scription  of  the  place  as  it  was  fifty  years  ago,  and  not 
wholly  incorrect  of  its  present  condition  ;  for  Cheyne  Kow 
has  changed  less  than  most  other  streets  in  London.  The 
Embankment  had  yet  forty  years  to  wait. 

Tlie  street  (Carlyle  wrote)  runs  down  upon  the  river,  which  I 
suppose  you  might  see  by  stretching  out  your  head  from  the  front 
window,  at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards  on  the  left.  We  are  called 
‘  Cheyne  Row  ’  proper  (pronounced  Chainie  Row),  and  are  a  ‘  gen¬ 
teel  neighbourhood ;  ’  two  old  ladies  on  one  side,  unknown  char¬ 
acter  on  the  other,  but  with  ‘pianos.’  The  street  is  flag  patlied, 
sunk  storied,  iron  railed,  all  old  fashioned  and  tightly  done  up ; 
looks  out  on  a  rank  of  sturdy  old  pollarded  (that  is,  beheaded)  lime 
trees  standing  there  like  giants  in  tawtie  wigs  (for  the  new  boughs 
are  still  young) ;  beyond  this  a  high  brick  wall ;  backwards  a  gar¬ 
den,  the  size  of  our  back  one  at  Comely  Bank,  with  trees,  &c.,  in 
bad  culture  ;  beyond  this  green  liayfields  and  tree  avenues,  once  a 


3  46 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

bishop’s  pleasure  grounds,  an  unpicturesque  yet  rather  cheerful 
outlook.  The  house  itself  is  eminent,  antique,  wainscoted  to  the 
very  ceiling,  and  has  been  all  new  painted  and  repaired ;  broadish 
stair  with  massive  balustrade  (in  the  old  style),  corniced  and  as 
thick  as  one’s  thigh  ;  floors  thick  as  a  rock,  wood  of  them  here  and 
there  worm-eaten,  yet  capable  of  cleanness,  and  still  with  thrice 
the  strength  of  a  modern  floor.  And  then  as  to  rooms,  Goody ! 
Three  stories  beside  the  sunk  story,  in  every  one  of  them  three 
apartments,  in  depth  something  like  forty  feet  in  all — a  front  din¬ 
ing-room  (marble  chimney  piece,  &c.),  then  a  back  dining-room 
or  breakfast-room,  a  little  narrower  by  reason  of  the  kitchen  stairs  ; 
then  out  of  this,  and  narrower  still  (to  allow  a  back  window,  you 
consider)  a  china-room  or  pantry,  or  I  know  not  what,  all  shelved 
and  fit  to  hold  crockery  for  the  whole  street.  Such  is  the  ground 
area,  which  of  course  continues  to  the  top,  and  furnishes  every 
bedroom  with  a  dressing-room  or  second  bedroom ;  on  the  whole 
a  most  massive  roomy  sufficient  old  house  with  places,  for  ex¬ 
ample,  to  hang,  say,  three  dozen  hats  or  cloaks  on,  and  as  many 
crevices  and  queer  old  presses  and  shelved  closets  (all  tight  and 
new  painted  in  their  way)  as  would  gratify  the  most  covetous 
Goody — rent,  thirty-five  pounds  !  I  confess  I  am  strongly  tempted. 
Chelsea  is  a  singular  heterogeneous  kind  of  spot,  very  dirty  and 
confused  in  some  places,  quite  beautiful  in  others,  abounding  with 
antiquities  and  the  traces  of  great  men — Sir  Thomas  More,  Steele, 
Smollett,  &c.  Our  row,  which  for  the  last  three  doors  or  so  is  a 
street,  and  none  of  the  noblest,  runs  out  upon  a  ‘  Parade  ’  (perhaps 
they  call  it)  running  along  the  shore  of  the  river,  a  broad  highway 
with  huge  shady  trees,  boats  lying  moored,  and  a  smell  of  ship¬ 
ping  and  tan.  Battersea  Bridge  (of  wood)  a  few  yards  off ;  the 
broad  river  with  white-trowsered,  white-shirted  Cockneys  dashing 
by  like  arrows  in  thin  long  canoes  of  boats ;  beyond,  the  green 
beautiful  knolls  of  Surrey  with  their  villages — on  the  whole,  a 
most  artificial,  green-painted,  yet  lively,  fresh,  almost  opera-look¬ 
ing  business,  such  as  you  can  fancy.  Finally,  Chelsea  abounds 
more  than  any  place  in  omnibi,  and  they  take  you  to  Coventry 
Street  for  sixpence.  Revolve  all  this  in  thy  fancy  and  judgment, 
my  child,  and  see  what  thou  canst  make  of  it. 

The  discovery  of  this  Chelsea  house  had  been  so  gratify¬ 
ing  that  more  amiable  views  could  be  taken,  and  more  in¬ 
terest  felt,  with  the  other  conditions  of  London  life. 


London  Friends. 


347 


Let  me  now  treat  thee  to  a  budget  of  small  news  (he  goes  on). 
Mill  I  have  not  yet  seen  again ;  we  could  make  no  appointment, 
being  so  unfixed  as  yet.  Mrs.  Austin  had  a  tragical  story  of  his 
having  fallen  desperately  in  love  with  some  young  philosophic 
beauty  (yet  with  the  innocence  of  two  sucking  doves),  and  being 
lost  to  all  his  friends  and  to  himself,  and  what  not ;  but  I  traced 
nothing  of  this  in  poor  Mill ;  and  even  incline  to  think  that  what 
truth  there  is  or  was  in  his  adventure  may  have  done  him  good. 
Buller  also  spoke  of  it,  but  in  the  comic  vein.  Irving  I  have 
not  again  seen,  though  I  have  tried  four  times ;  yesterday  twice 
(at  Bayswater),  and  the  second  time  with  great  disappointment. 
He  seems  to  be  under  the  care  of  a  Scotch  sick  nurse  there  ;  was 
said  to  be  ‘  asleep  ’  when  I  called  first,  then  gone  (contrary  to  my 
appointment)  when  I  called  the  second  time.  He  rides  twice  a 
day  down  to  that  Domdaniel  in  Newman  Street,  rises  at  five  in  the 
morning,  goes  to  bed  at  nine,  is  ‘  very  weak.''  I  had  refused  din¬ 
ner  at  the  Austins  for  his  sake ;  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  might 
have  clutched  him  from  perdition  and  death,  and  now  we  were 
not  to  meet  again.  My  poor  Edward  I  Heu ,  quantum  mutatus ! 
But  I  will  make  a  new  trial.  Heraud  said  to  me,  quite  in  the 
cursory  style,  ‘  Aaving  (Irving)  is  dying  and  a — a —  !  ’  Heraud 
himself  (‘  mad  as  a  March  hare,’  Fraser  said)  lives  close  by  Amp- 
ton  Street,  and  is  exceedingly  kedge  about  me,  anxious  beyond 
measure  for  golden  opinions  of  his  God-dedicated  Epic — of  which 
I  would  not  tell  him  any  lie,  greatly  as  he  tempted  me. 

Eraser  did  not  open  freely  to  me,  yet  was  opening.  Literature 
still  all  a  mystery  ;  nothing  ‘  paying ;  ’  ‘  Teufelsdrockli  ’  beyond 
measure  unpopular ;  an  oldest  subscriber  came  in  to  him  and 
said,  ‘  If  there  is  any  more  of  that  d — d  stuff  I  will,  &c.  &c.;  ’  on 
the  other  hand,  an  order  from  America  (Boston  or  Philadelphia) 
to  send  a  copy  of  the  magazine  so  long  as  there  wTas  anything  of 
Carlyle’s  in  it.’  ‘  One  spake  up  and  the  other  spake  down :  ’  on 
the  whole,  Goody,  I  have  a  great  defiance  of  all  that.  As  to  ‘  fame  ’ 
and  the  like,  in  very  truth,  in  this  state  of  the  public,  it  is  a  thing  one 
is  always  better  without ;  so  I  really  saw  and  felt  the  other  night, 
clearly  for  the  first  time.  Miss  Martineau,  for  example,  is  done 
again ;  going  to  America  to  try  a  new  tack  when  she  returns — so 
are  they  all,  or  will  inevitably  all  be  done;  extinguished  and 
abolished  ;  for  they  are  nothing,  and  were  only  called  (and  made, 
to  fancy  themselves)  something.  Mrs.  Austin  herself  seems  to 
me  in  a  kind  of  trial-state ;  risen  or  rising  to  where  she  cannot 


348 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

lioj)e  to  stand ;  where  it  will  be  well  if  she  feels  no  giddiness,  as 
indeed  I  really  hope  she  will.  A  most  excellent  creature,  of  sur- 
veyable  limits ;  her  goodness  will  in  all  cases  save  her.  Buller  is 
better  and  went  yesterday  (I  fancy)  to  4  the  House.’  We  have  had 
two  long  talks  (on  occasion  of  the  franks)  with  great  mutual  delight. 
An  intelligent,  clear,  honest,  most  kindly  vivacious  creature ;  the 
genialest  Radical  I  have  ever  met.  He  throws  light  for  me  on 
many  things,  being  very  ready  to  speak.  Mrs.  Austin  spoke 
ominously  of  his  health,  but  to  my  seeing  without  much  ground. 
Charlie,  I  think,  will  be  among  my  little  comforts  here. 

The  Duke,  now  plain  Mr.  Jeffrey,  but  soon  to  be  Lord  Jeffrey, 
is  still  here  for  a  week ;  he  has  left  his  address  for  me  with  Mrs. 
Austin.  I  determined  to  call  some  morning  in  passing,  and  did 
it  on  Monday.  Reception  anxiously  cordial  from  all  three ;  hur¬ 
ried  insignificant  talk  from  him  still  at  the  breakfast  table  ;  kind¬ 
ness  playing  over  ‘iron  gravity’  from  me.  I  felt  it  to  be  a  fare¬ 
well  visit,  and  that  it  should  be  ‘  hallowed  in  our  choicest  mood.’ 
The  poor  Duke  is  so  tremulous,  he  bade  me  ‘  good  evening  ’  at 
the  door ;  immense  jerking  from  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  yet  many  kind 
words  and  invitations  back.  .  .  .  And  so  ends  our  dealing  with 
bright  Jeffreydom,  once  so  sparkling,  cheerful,  now  gone  out  into 
darkness — which  shall  not  become  foul  candlestuff  vapour,  but 
darkness  only.  Empson  is  still  alive ;  but  I  surely  will  not  seek 
him.  Napier,  too,  is  here,  or  was ;  him,  too,  I  will  nowise  seek  or 
meddle  with — the  hungry  simulacrum. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

4  Ampton  Street,  London  :  May  30,  1834. 

My  dear  Mother, — How  often  have  I  thought  of  you  since  we 
parted,  in  all  varieties  of  solemn  moods,  only  seldom  or  never  in 
a  purely  sad  or  painful  one.  My  most  constant  feeling  is  one  not 
without  a  certain  sacredness  :  I  determine  to  live  worthily  of  such 
a  mother ;  to  know  always,  like  her,  that  we  are  ever  in  our  great 
Taskmaster’s  eye,  with  whom  are  the  issues  not  of  time  only, 
which  is  but  a  short  vision,  but  of  eternity,  which  ends  not  and  is 
a  reality.  Oh  that  I  could  keep  these  things  for  ever  clear  before 
me !  my  whole  jnayer  with  regard  to  life  were  gratified.  But 
these  things  also  should  not  make  us  gloomy  or  sorrowful :  far 
from  that.  Have  we  not,  as  you  often  say,  ‘  many  mercies  ’  ?  Is 
not  the  light  to  see  that  they  are  mercies  the  first  and  greatest  of 
these  ? 


London  Friends. 


349 


Assure  yourself,  my  dear  mother,  that  all  goes  well.  In  regard 
to  health,  this  incessant  toil  and  even  irregular  living  seems  to 
agree  with  me.  I  take  no  drugs.  I  really  feel  fresher  and 
stronger  than  I  used  to  do  among  the  moorlands.  Moreover,  I 
never  was  farther  in  my  life  from  4  tining  heart ,’  which  I  know  well 
were  to  4  tine  all.’  Not  a  bit  of  me  !  I  walk  along  these  tumultu¬ 
ous  streets  with  nothing  but  a  feeling  of  kindness,  of  brotherly 
pity,  towards  all.  No  loudest  boasting  of  man’s  strikes  any,  the 
smallest,  terror  into  me  for  the  present;  indeed  how  should  it 
when  no  loudest  boasting  and  threatening  of  the  Devil  himself 
would?  He  nor  they  4 cannot  hinder  thee  of  God’s  providence.’ 
No,  they  cannot.  I  have  the  clearest  certainty  that  if  work  is  ap¬ 
pointed  me  here  to  do,  it  must  and  will  be  done,  and  means  found 
for  doing  it.  So  fear  nothing,  my  dear  mother.  Tom  will  en¬ 
deavour  not  to  disgrace  you  iu  this  new  position  more  than  in 
others. 

I  have  seen  some  book-publishing  persons,  some  4  literary  men  ’ 
also.  The  great  proportion  are  indubitablest  duds:  these  two  we 
must  let  pass,  and  even  welcome  when  they  meet  us  with  kindli¬ 
ness.  By  far  the  sensiblest  man  I  see  is  Mill,  who  seems  almost 
fonder  of  me  than  ever.  The  class  he  belongs  to  has  the  farther 
merit  of  being  genuine  and  honest  so  far  as  they  go.  I  think  it 
is  rather  with  that  class  that  I  shall  connect  myself  than  with  any 
other ; 1  but  still  in  many  important  respects  I  have  to  expect  to 
find  myself  alone.  Charles  Buller  is  grown  a  very  promising 
man,  likely  to  do  good  in  the  world,  if  his  health  were  only 
better,  which  as  yet  hampers  him  much.  He  evidently  likes  me 
well,  as  do  all  his  household,  and  will  be  a  considerable  pleasure 
to  me.  I  was  dining  there  this  day  week.  I  saw  various  notable 
persons — Badical  members,  and  such  like  ;  among  whom  a  young, 
very  rich  man,  named  Sir  William  Moiesworth,  pleased  me  con¬ 
siderably.  We  have  met  since,  and  shall  probably  see  much  more 
of  one  another.  He  seems  very  honest :  needs,  or  will  need,  guid¬ 
ance  much,  and  with  it  may  do  not  a  little  good. 

I  liked  the  frank  manners  of  the  young  man  ;  so  beautiful  in 
contrast  with  Scottish  gigmanity.  I  pitied  his  darkness  of  mind, 
and  heartily  wished  him  well.  He  is,  among  other  things,  a  ve¬ 
hement  smoker  of  tobacco.  This  Moiesworth  is  one  of  the  main 
men  that  are  to  support  that  Radical  Review  of  theirs  with  which 

1  ‘No  poison  in  the  Radicals.  If  little  apprehension  of  positive  truth,  no 
hypocrisy ;  no  wilful  taking  up  with  falsehood.’ 


350 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


it  seems  likely  that  I  may  rather  heartily  connect  myself,  if  it 
take  a  form  I  can  do  with.  The  rest  of  the  reviews  are  sick  and 
lean,  ready  for  nothing,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  but  a  gentle  death.  I 
also  mean  to  write  a  new  book  ;  and  in  a  serious  enough  style,  you 
may  depend  upon  it.  By  the  time  we  have  got  the  flitting  rightly 
over  I  shall  have  settled  what  and  how  it  is  to  be.  Either  on  the 
French  Revolution,  or  on  John  Knox  and  our  Scottish  Kirk. 

By  dint  of  incessant  industry  I  again  got  to  see  Edward  Irving, 
and  on  Saturday  last  spent  two  hours  with  him.  He  seemed  to 
have  wonderfully  recovered  his  health,  and  I  trust  will  not  perish 
in  these  delusions  of  his.  He  is  still  a  good  man,  yet  wofully 
given  over  to  his  idols,  and  enveloped  for  the  present,  and  nigh 
choked,  in  the  despicablest  coil  of  cobwebs  ever  man  sate  in  the 
midst  of. 

Mrs.  Stracliey  I  have  seen  some  three  times,  but  not  in  very  ad¬ 
vantageous  circumstances.  She  is  the  same  true  woman  she  ever 
was,  indignant  at  the  oppressing  of  the  poor,  at  the  wrong  and  false¬ 
hood  with  which  the  earth  is  filled  ;  yet  rather  gently  withdrawn 
from  it,  and  hoping  in  what  is  beyond  it  than  actively  at  war  with  it. 

Carlyle  was  not  long  left  alone.  Mrs.  Carlyle  arrived — • 
she  came  by  Annan  steamer  and  the  coach  from  Liverpool 
at  the  beginning  of  June  ;  old  Mrs.  Carlyle,  standing  with 
a  crowd  on  the  Annan  pier,  waving  her  handkerchief  as  the 
vessel  moved  away.  Carlyle,  as  he  returned  from  his  walk 
to  his  lodgings  in  Amp  ton  Street,  was  received  by  the 
chirping  of  little  Chico,  the  canary  bird  ;  his  wife  resting 
after  her  journey  in  bed.  They  had  been  fortunate  in  se¬ 
curing  a  remarkable  woman,  who  was  more  a  friend  and  a 
companion  than  a  servant,  to  help  them  through  their  first 
difficulties — Bessy  Barnet,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Badams’s 
housekeeper  at  Birmingham,  whom  Carlyle  had  known 
there  as  a  child.  Badams  was  now  dead,  and  this  Bessy, 
who  had  remained  with  him  to  the  last,  now  attached  her¬ 
self  to  Carlyle  for  the  sake  of  her  late  master.  The 
Chelsea  house  was  seen  by  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  after  some 
hesitation  was  approved ;  and  three  days  after  they  had 
taken  possession  of  their  future  home,  and  Bickford’s 


The  House  in  Gheyne  Rom.  351 

vans  were  at  the  door  unloading  the  furniture  from  Crai- 
genputtock. 

Thirty -four  years  later  Carlyle  wrote : — 

Tuesday,  lOtli  of  June,  1834,  was  the  day  of  our  alighting,  amidst 
heaped  furniture,  in  this  house,  where  we  were  to  continue  for  life. 
I  well  remember  bits  of  the  drive  from  Ampton  Street :  what 
damp-clouded  kind  of  sky  it  was ;  how  in  crossing  Belgrave 
Square  Chico,  whom  she  had  brought  from  Craigenputtock  in  her 
lap,  burst  out  into  singing,  which  we  all  (Bessy  Barnet,  our  roman¬ 
tic  maid,  sate  with  us  in  the  old  hackney  coach)  strove  to  accept 
as  a  promising  omen.  The  business  of  sorting  and  settling  with 
two  or  three  good  carpenters,  already  on  the  ground,  was  at  once 
gone  into  with  boundless  alacrity,1  and  under  such  management 
as  hers  went  on  at  a  mighty  rate ;  even  the  three  or  four  days  of 
quasi  camp  life,  or  gipsy  life,  had  a  kind  of  gay  charm  to  us  ;  and 
hour  by  hour  we  saw  the  confusion  abating— growing  into  victori¬ 
ous  order.  Leigh  Hunt  was  continually  sending  us  notes ;  most 
probably  would  in  person  step  across  before  bedtime,  and  give  us 
an  hour  of  the  prettiest  melodious  discourse.  In  about  a  week,  it 
seems  to  me,  all  was  swept  and  garnished,  fairly  habitable,  and 
continued  incessantly  to  get  itself  polished,  civilised,  and  beauti¬ 
ful  to  a  degree  that  surprised  me.  I  have  elsewhere  alluded  to 
all  that,  and  to  my  little  Jeannie’s  conduct  of  it.  Heroic,  lovely, 
mournfully  beautiful  as  in  the  light  of  eternity  that  little  scene  of 
time  now  looks  to  me.  From  birth  upwards  she  had  lived  in  opu¬ 
lence,  and  now  for  my  sake  had  become  poor — so  nobly  poor.  No 
such  house  for  beautiful  thrift,  quiet,  spontaneous — nay,  as  it  were, 
unconscious  minimum  of  money  reconciled  to  human  comfort  and 
dignity,  have  I  anywhere  looked  upon  where  I  have  been. 

1  Carlyle’s  memory  was  perfect^  accurate  in  what  it  retained.  His  account 
to  his  brother  at  the  time  gives  fuller  detail  to  the  picture  :  ‘  A  hackney  coach, 
loaded  to  the  roof  and  beyond  it  with  luggage  and  the  passengers,  tumbled  us 
all  down  here  at  eleven  in  the  morning.  By  all  I  mean  my  dame  and  myself, 
Bessy  Barnet,  who  had  come  the  night  before,  and  little  Chico,  the  canary 
bird,  who  multum  jactatus  did  nevertheless  arrive  living  and  well  from  Put- 
tock,  and  even  sang  violently  all  the  way,  by  sea  and  land,  nay,  struck  up  his 
lilt  in  the  very  London  streets  whenever  he  could  see  green  leaves  and  feel  the 
fre£"air.  There  we  sate  on  three  trunks.  I,  however,  with  a  match-box  soon 
lit  a  cigar,  as  Bessy  did  a  lire  ;  and  thus  with  a  kind  of  cheerful  solemnity  we 
took  possession  by  “  raising  reek,”  and  even  dined  in  an  extempore  fashion  on 
a  box  lid  covered  with  some  accidental  towel.’  (To  John  Carlyle,  June  17, 
1834.) 


352 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

Tlie  auspices  under  which  the  new  life  began,  not  from 
Chico’s  song  only,  were  altogether  favourable.  The 
weather  was  fine ;  the  cherries  were  ripening  on  a  tree 
in  the  garden.  Carlyle  got  his  garden  tools  to  work 
and  repaired  the  borders,  and  set  in  slips  of  jessamine 
and  gooseberry  bushes  brought  from  Scotland.  To  his 
mother,  who  was  curious  about  the  minutest  details,  he 
reported — - 

We  lie  safe  at  a  bend  of  the  river,  away  from  all  the  great  roads, 
have  air  and  quiet  hardly  inferior  to  Craigenputtock,  an  outlook 
from  the  back  windows  into  mere  leafy  regions  with  here  and  there 
a  red  high-peaked  old  roof  looking  through ;  and  see  nothing  of 
London,  except  by  day  the  summits  of  St.  Paul’s  Cathedral  and 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  by  night  the  gleam  of  the  great  Babylon 
affronting  the  peaceful  skies.  The  house  itself  is  probably  the 
best  we  have  ever  lived  in — a  right  old,  strong,  roomy  brick  house, 
built  near  150  years  ago,  and  likely  to  see  three  races  of  these 
modern  fashionables  fail  before  it  comes  down. 

The  French  Revolution  had  been  finally  decided  on  as 
the  subject  for  the  next  book,  and  was  to  be  set  about  im¬ 
mediately  ;  Fraser  having  offered,  not  indeed  to  give  money 
for  it,  but  to  do  what  neither  he  nor  any  other  publisher 
would  venture  for  ‘  Sartor  ’ — take  the  risk  of  printing  it. 
Mill  furnished  volumes  on  the  subject  in  ‘  barrowfuls.’ 
Leigh  Hunt  was  a  pleasant  immediate  neighbour,  and  an 
increasing  circle  of  Radical  notabilities  began  to  court 
Carlyle’s  society.  There  was  money  enough  to  last  for  a 
year  at  least.  In  a  year  he  hoped  that  his  book  might  be 
finished ;  that  he  might  then  give  lectures ;  that  either 
then  or  before  some  editorship  might  fall  to  him — the 
editorship,  perhaps  (for  it  is  evident  that  he  hoped  for  it), 
of  Mill’s  and  Moleswortli’s  new  Radical  Review.  Thus 
at  the  outset  he  was — for  him — tolerably  cheerful.  On 
the  27th  of  June  he  sent  a  full  account  of  things  to 
Scotsbrig. 


• Settlement  in  London. 


353 


To  Alexander  Carlyle. 

5  C hey ne  Row,  Chelsea  :  June  27,  1834. 

The  process  of  installation  is  all  but  terminated,  and  we  in 
rather  good  health  and  spirits,  and  all  doing  well,  are  beginning 
to  feel  ourselves  at  home  in  our  new  hadding.  We  have  nothing 
to  complain  of,  much  to  be  piously  grateful  for  ;  and  thus,  with  a 
kind  of  serious  cheerfulness,  may  gird  ourselves  up  for  a  new 
career.  As  it  was  entered  on  without  dishonest  purposes,  the  is¬ 
sue,  unless  we  change  for  the  worse,  is  not  to  be  dreaded ,  prove  as 
it  may. 

One  of  the  greatest  moments  of  my  life,  I  think,  was  when  I 
waved  my  hat  to  you  and  Jamie  from  on  board  the  steamboat.  My 
two  brothers,  the  last  of  my  kindred  I  had  to  leave,  stood  there , 
and  I  stood  here ,  already  flying  fast  from  them.  I  would  not  dese¬ 
crate  so  solemn  an  hour  by  childish  weakness.  I  turned  my 
thoughts  heavenward,  for  it  is  in  heaven  only  that  I  find  any  basis 
for  our  poor  pilgrimage  on  this  earth.  Courage,  my  brave 
brothers  all !  Let  us  be  found  faithful  and  we  shall  not  fail. 
Surely  as  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  encircles  us  all,  so  does  the 
providence  of  the  Lord  of  Heaven.  He  will  withhold  no  good 
thing  from  those  that  love  Him !  This,  as  it  was  the  ancient 
Psalmist’s  faith,  let  it  likewise  be  ours.  It  is  the  Alpha  and 
Omega,  I  reckon,  of  all  possessions  that  can  belong  to  man. 

Neither  my  mother  nor  you  will  interpret  these  reflections  of 
mine  as  if  they  betokened  gloom  of  temper— but  indeed  rather 
the  reverse.  I  hope  we  have  left  great  quantities  of  gloom  safe 
behind  us  at  Puttoek,  and  indeed  hitherto  have  given  little  har¬ 
bour  to  such  a  guest  here.  It  is  strange  often  to  myself,  with 
what  a  kind  of  not.  only  fearlessness,  but  meek  contempt  and  in¬ 
difference,  I  can  walk  through  the  grinding  press  of  these  restless 
millions,  ‘  listening,’  as  Teufelsdrockh  says,  ‘  to  its  loudest  threat- 
enings  with  a  still  smile.’  I  mean  to  work  according  to  my 
strength.  As  to  riches,  fame,  success,  and  so  forth,  I  ask  no  ques¬ 
tions.  Were  the  work  laid  out  for  us  but  the  kneading  of  a  clay 
brick,  let  us,  in  God’s  name,  do  it  faithfully ,  and  look  for  our  re¬ 
ward  elsewhere.  So,  on  the  wiiole,  to  end  moralising,  let  ps 
sing — 

Come,  fingers  five,  come  now  be  live, 

And  stout  heart  fail  me  not,  not— 

or,  W'liat  is  far  before  singing,  let  us  do  it,  and  go  on  doing  it. 

In  respect  of  society  we  have  what  perfectly  suffices — having  in- 
Vol.  II.— 23 


354  Life  of  Thomas  CarlyPe . 

deed  here  the  best  chance.  Mill  comes  sometimes ;  the  Bullers 
were  all  here,  paying  us  their  first  visit,  Mrs.  Austin,  &c.  There 
is  really  enough,  and  might  easily  be  to  spare.  Things  go  in  the 
strangest  course  in  that  respect  here.  A  man  becomes  for  some 
reason,  or  for  no  reason,  in  some  way  or  other  notable.  Straight¬ 
way  his  door  from  dawn  to  dusk  is  beset  with  idlers  and  loungers, 
and  empty  persons  on  foot  and  in  carriages,  who  come  to  gather  of 
his  supposed  fulness  one  five  minutes  of  tolerable  sensation ;  and 
so  the  poor  man  (most  frequently  it  is  a  poor  woman)  sits  in 
studied  attitude  all  day,  1  doing  what  he  can  do,’  which  is,  alas  ! 
all  too  little  ;  for  gradually  or  suddenly  the  carriage  and  foot 
empty  persons  start  some  other  scent  and  crowd  elsewhither  ;  and 
so  the  poor  notable  man,  now  fallen  into  midnight  obscurity,  sits 
in  his  studied  attitude  within  forsaken  walls,  either  to  rise  and  set 
about  some  work  (which  were  the  best),  or  mournfully  chant  Ich - 
abod!  according  to  his  convenience. 

On  the  whole,  as  I  often  say,  what  is  society  ?  "What  is  the  help 
of  others  in  any  shape  ?  None  but  thyself  can  effectually  help  thee, 
can  effectually  hinder  thee  !  A  man  must  have  lived  to  little  pur¬ 
pose  six  years  in  the  wilderness  of  Puttock  if  he  have  not  made 
this  clear  to  himself. 

Hunt  and  the  Hunts,  as  you  have  heard,  live  only  in  the  next 
street  from  us.  Hunt  is  always  ready  to  go  and  walk  with  me,  or 
sit  and  talk  with  me  to  all  lengths  if  I  want  him.  He  comes  in 
once  a  week  (when  invited,  for  he  is  very  modest),  takes  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  sits  discoursing  in  his  brisk,  fanciful  way  till  supper 
time,  and  then  cheerfully  eats  a  cup  of  porridge  (to  sugar  only), 
which  he  praises  to  the  skies,  and  vows  he  will  make  his  supper 
of  at  home.  He  is  a  man  of  thoroughly  London  make,  such  as 
you  could  not  find  elsewhere,  and  I  think  about  the  best  possible 
to  be  made  of  his  sort :  an  airy,  crotchety,  most  copious  clever 
talker,  with  an  honest  undercurrent  of  reason  too,  but  unfortu¬ 
nately  not  the  deepest,  not  the  most  practical — or  rather  it  is  the 
most  impractical  ever  man  dealt  in.  His  hair  is  grizzled,  eyes 
black-hazel,  complexion  of  the  clearest  dusky  brown ;  a  thin 
glimmer  of  a  smile  plays  over  a  face  of  cast-iron  gravity.  He 
never  laughs — can  only  titter,  which  I  think  indicates  his  worst 
deficiency.  His  house  excels  all  you  have  ever  read  of — a  poetical 
Tinkerdom,  without  parallel  even  in  literature.  In  his  family  room, 
where  are  a  sickly  large  wife  and  a  whole  shoal  of  well-condi¬ 
tioned  wild  children,  you  will  find  half  a  dozen  old  rickety  chairs 


355 


Leigh  Hunt  and  his  Family. 

gathered  from  half  a  dozen  different  hucksters,  and  all  seemingly 
engaged,  and  just  pausing,  in  a  violent  hornpipe.  On  these  and 
around  them  and  over  the  dusty  table  and  ragged  carpet  lie  all 
kinds  of  litter — books,  papers,  egg-shells,  scissors,  and  last  night 
when  I  was  there  the  torn  heart  of  a  half-quartern  loaf.  His  own 
room  above  stairs,  into  which  alone  I  strive  to  enter,  he  keeps 
cleaner.  It  has  only  two  chairs,  a  bookcase,  and  a  writing-table ; 
yet  the  noble  Hunt  receives  you  in  his  Tinkerdom  in  the  spirit  of 
a  king,  apologises  for  nothing,  places  you  in  the  best  seat,  takes  a 
window-sill  himself  if  there  is  no  other,  and  there  folding  closer 
his  loose-flowing  ‘  muslin  cloud  ’  of  a  printed  nightgown  in  which 
he  always  writes,  commences  the  liveliest  dialogue  on  philosophy 
and  the  prospects  of  man  (who  is  to  be  beyond  measure  ‘  happy  ’ 
yet)  ;  which  again  he  will  courteously  terminate  the  moment  you 
are  bound  to  go :  a  most  interesting,  pitiable,  lovable  man,  to  be 
used  kindly  but  with  discretion.  After  all,  it  is  perhaps  rather  a 
comfort  to  be  near  honest,  friendly  people — at  least,  an  honest, 
friendly  man  of  that  sort.  We  stand  sharp  but  mannerly  for  his 
sake  and  for  ours,  and  endeavour  to  get  and  do  what  good  we  can, 
and  avoid  the  evil. 

To  John  Carlyle,  Naples. 

5  Cheyne  Row  :  July  22,  1834. 

We  are  getting  along  here  as  we  can  without  cause  of  complaint. 
Our  house  and  whole  household,  inanimate  and  rational,  continue 
to  yield  all  contentment.  Bessy  is  a  clever,  clear-minded  girl ; 
lives  quietly  not  only  as  a  servant,  but  can  cheer  her  mistress  as  a 
companion  and  friend.  Most  favourable  change.  Jane  keeps  in 
decidedly  better  health  and  spirits.  Within  doors  I  have  all 
manner  of  scope.  Out  of  doors,  unhappily,  the  prospect  is  vague 
enough,  yet  I  myself  am  not  without  fixed  aim.  The  bookselling 
world,  I  seem  to  see,  is  all  but  a  hopeless  one  for  me.  Periodical 
editors  will  employ  me,  as  they  have  employed  me,  on  this  princi¬ 
ple  :  for  the  sake  of  my  name,  and  to  help  them  to  season  a  new 
enterprise.  That  once  accomplished,  they  want  little  more  to  do 
with  me.  Amateurs  enough  exist  that  will  dirty  paper  gratis,  and 
puffery,  and  so  forth,  is  expected  to  do  the  rest.  Thus  they  kept 
a  gusting  bone  in  the  four  towns,  and  lent  it  out  to  give  a  flavour  to 
weak  soup  ;  otherwise  hung  it  in  the  nook.  I  am  much  dissatis¬ 
fied  with  the  arrangement  and  little  minded  to  continue  it. 
Meanwhile,  by  Heaven’s  blessing,  I  find  I  can  get  a  book  printed 


356 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


with  my  name  on  it.  I  have  fixed  on  my  book,  and  am  labouring 
( ohne  Hast ,  ohne  East)  as  yet  afar  off'to  get  it  ready.  Did  I  not 
tell  you  the  subject?  The  French  Revolution.  I  mean  to  make 
an  artistic  picture  of  it.  Alas  !  the  subject  is  high  and  huge,  lch 
zittre  nur ,  ich  stottre  nur,  und  kann  es  dock  nicht  lassen.  Mill  has 
lent  me  above  a  hundred  books ;  I  read  continually,  and  the 
matter  is  dimly  shaping  itself  in  me.  Much  is  in  the  Museum  for 
me,  too,  in  the  shape  of  books  and  pamphlets.  I  wTas  there  a 
week  ago  seeking  pictures  ;  found  none  ;  but  got  a  sight  of  Albert 
Diirer,  and  (I  find)  some  shadow  of  his  old — teutschen,  deep,  still 
soul,  which  was  well  worth  the  getting.  This  being  my  task  till 
the  end  of  the  year,  why  should  I  curiously  inquire  what  is  to  be¬ 
come  of  me  next  ?  ‘  There  is  aye  life  for  a  living  body,’  as  my 

mother’s  jftoverb  has  it ;  also,  as  she  reminded  me  ‘  if  thou  tine 
heart,  thou  tines  aV  I  will  do  m}r  best  and  calmest;  then  wait 
and  ask.  As  yet,  I  find  myself  much  cut  off  from  practical  com¬ 
panions  and  instructors ;  my  visitors  and  collocutors  are  all  of  the 
theoretic  sort,  and  worth  comparatively  little  to  me,  but  I  shall 
gradually  approach  the  other  sort,  and  try  to  profit  by  them. 
With  able  editors  I  figure  my  course  as  terminated.  Fraser  can¬ 
not  afford  to  pay  me,  besides  seems  more  and  more  bent  on  Tory¬ 
ism  and  Irish  reporterism,  to  me  infinitely  detestable. 

With  regard  to  neighbourhood  I  might  say  we  wTere  very  quiet, 
even  solitary,  yet  not  oppressively  so.  Of  visitors  that  merely  call 
here  we  have  absolutely  none ;  our  day  is  our  own,  and  those  that 
do  come  are  worth  something  to  us.  Our  most  interesting  new 
friend  is  a  Mrs.  Taylor,  who  came  here  for  the  first  time  yesterday, 
and  stayed  long.  She  is  a  living  romance  heroine,  of  the  clearest 
insight,  of  the  royalest  volition  *  very  interesting,  of  questionable 
destiny,  not  above  twenty -five.  Jane  is  to  go  and  pass  a  day  with 
her  soon,  being  greatly  taken  wTitli  her.  Allan  Cunningham  with 
his  wife  and  daughter  made  us  out  last  night.  We  are  to  dine 
there  some  day.  Hunt  is  always  at  hand ;  but,  as  the  modestest 
of  men,  never  comes  unless  sent  for.  His  theory  of  life  and  mine 
have  already  declared  themselves  to  be  from  top  to  bottom  at  va¬ 
riance,  which  shocks  him  considerably  ;  to  me  his  talk  is  occasion¬ 
ally  pleasant,  is  always  clear  and  lively,  but  all  too  foisonless,  base¬ 
less,  and  shallow.  He  has  a  theory  that  the  world  is,  or  should, 
and  shall  be,  a  gingerbread  Lubberland,  where  evil  (that  is,  pain) 
shall  never  come  :  a  theory  in  very  considerable  favour  here,  which 
to  me  is  pleasant  as  streams  of  unambrosial  dishwater,  a  thing  I 


French  Revolution. 


do  i 

simply  shut  my  mouth  against,  as  the  shortest  way.  Irving  I  have 
not  succeeded  in  seeing  again,  though  I  went  up  to  Bayswater  once 
and  left  my  name.  I  rather  think  his  wife  will  incline  to  secrete 
him  from  me,  and  may  even  have  been  capable  of  suppressing  my 
card.  I  will  try  again,  for  his  sake  and  my  own.  Mill  is  on  the 
whole  our  best  figure,  yet  all  too  narrow  in  shape,  though  of  wide 
susceptibilities  and  very  fond  of  us.  He  hunts  me  out  old  books, 
does  all  he  can  for  me  ;  he  is  busy  about  the  new  Radical  Review, 
and  doubtless  will  need  me  there,  at  least  as  ‘gusting  bone.’ 
Ought  he  to  get  me  ?  Not  altogether  for  the  asking  perhaps,  for 
I  am  wTearied  of  that.  Voyons.  Thus,  dear  brother,  have  you  a 
most  full  and  artless  picture  of  our  existence  here.  You  do  not  de¬ 
spair  of  us  ;  your  sympathies  are  blended  with  hopes  for  us.  You 
will  make  out  of  all  this  food  enough  for  musing.  Muse  plenti¬ 
fully  about  us  :  to  me,  also,  you  continue  precious.  With  you  I 
am  double  strong.  God  be  with  you,  dear  Jack  !  Jane  stipulated 
for  a  paragraph,  so  I  stop  here. 

P.S.  by  Mrs.  Carlyle  : — 

Again  only  a  postscript,  my  dear  John,  but  I  will  write  one  time 
or  other.  I  will :  as  yet  I  am  too  unsettled.  In  trying  to  write  or 
read,  above  all  things,  I  feel  I  am  in  a  new  position.  When  I  look 
round  on  my  floors  once  more  laid  with  carpets,  my  chairs  all  in  a 
row,  &c.,  I  flatter  myself  the  tumult  is  subsided.  But  when  I 
look  within !  alas,  I  find  my  wits  by  no  means  in  a  row,  but  still 
engaged  at  an  uproarious  game  of  ‘  Change  seats,  the  king’s  com¬ 
ing.’  I  read  dozens  of  pages,  and  find  at  the  end  that  I  have  not 
the  slightest  knowledge  what  they  were  about.  I  take  out  a  note¬ 
book  day  after  day  and  write  the  day  of  the  week  and  month,  and 
so  return  it.  Pity  the  poor  white  woman.  She  will  find  herself 
by-and-by  and  communicate  the  news  to  you  among  the  first :  for 
I  am  sure  you  care  for  her,  and  would  rejoice  in  her  attainment  of 
a  calm,  well-ordered  being  for  her  own  sake.  At  all  rates  we  are 
well  out  of  Puttock  everywhere. 

These  first  letters  from  London  would  seem  to  indicate 
that  Carlyle  was  tolerably  4  hefted ?  to  his  new  home  and 
condition ;  but  the  desponding  mood  was  never  long  ab¬ 
sent.  Happy  those  to  whom  nature  has  given  good  ani¬ 
mal  spirits.  There  is  no  fairy  gift  equal  to  this  for  help¬ 
ing  a  man  to  fight  his  way,  and  animal  spirits  Carlyle 


358 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

never  had.  lie  had  the  keenest  sense  of  the  ridiculous  ; 
but  humour  and  sadness  are  inseparable  properties  of  the 
same  nature ;  his  constitutional  unhopefulness  soon  re¬ 
turned  upon  him,  and  was  taking  deeper  hold  than  he 
cared  to  let  others  see.  The  good  effects  of  this  change 
wore  off  in  a  few  weeks :  the  old  enemy  was  im  possession 
again,  and  the  entries  in  his  diary  were  more  desponding 
than  even  at  Craigenputtock. 

Saturday  night  (sunset),  July  26,  1834. — Have  written  nothing 
here  for  above  a  month ;  my  state  has  been  one  of  those  it  was  al¬ 
most  frightful-  to  speak  of  :  an  undetermined,  unspeakable  state. 
Little  better  yet ;  but  the  book  being  oj)en  I  will  put  down  a 
word. 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  gravity  of  my  situation  here.  ‘  Do  or 
die  ’  seems  the  word ;  and  alas  !  what  to  do  ?  I  have  no  practical 
friend,  no  confidant,  properly  no  companion.  For  five  days  to¬ 
gether  I  sit  without  so  much  as  speaking  to  anyone  except  my 
wife.  Mood  tragical,  gloomy,  as  of  one  forsaken,  who  had  nothing 
left  him  but  to  get  through  his  task  and  die.  No  periodical  editor 
wants  me  :  no  man  will  give  me  money  for  my  work.  Bad  health, 
too  (at  least,  singularly  changed  health),  brings  all  manner  of  dis- 
piritment.  Despicablest  fears  of  coming  to  absolute  beggary, 
&c.  &c.  besiege  me.  On  brighter  days  I  cast  these  off  into  the  dim 
distance,  and  see  a  world  fearful,  indeed,  but  grand  :  a  task  to  do 
in  it  which  no  poverty  or  beggary  shall  hinder. 

Can  friends  do  much  for  one  ?  Conversing  here  I  find  that  I 
get  almost  nothing ;  the  utmost,  and  that  rarely,  is  honest,  clear 
reception  of  what  I  give.  Surely  I  go  wrong  to  work.  I  question 
everybody  too,  but  none,  or  almost  none,  can  answer  me  on  any 
subject-  Hunt  is  limited,  even  bigoted,  and  seeing  that  I  utterly 
dissent  from  him  fears  that  I  despise  him  ;  a  kindly  clever  man, 
fantastic,  brilliant,  shallow,  of  one  topic,  loquacious,  unproduc¬ 
tive.  Mrs.  A.  (alas  !)  a  ‘Niagara  of  gossip  ;  ’  in  certain  of  my  hu¬ 
mours  fearful !  Mill  is  the  best ;  unhappily  he  is  speculative 
merely  ;  can  open  out  for  me  no  practical  road,  nor  even  direct  me 
where  I  may  search  after  such.  The  Unitarian-philosophic  fra¬ 
ternity  (likely  to  open  through  Mrs.  Taylor)  also  bodes  little. 
Alone  !  alone  !  ‘May  we  say  ’  (my  good  father  used  to  pray),  ‘  may 
we  say  we  are  not  alone,  for  the  Lord  is  with  us.’  True  !  true  ! 


Twilight  before  Dawn. 


359 


Keep  thy  heart  resolute  and  still ;  look  prudently  out,  take  dili¬ 
gent  advantage  of  what  time  and  chance  will  offer  (to  thee  as  to 
all)  ;  toil  along  and  fear  nothing.  Oh  thou  of  little  faith !  Weak 
of  faith  indeed  !  God  help  me  ! 

For  about  a  month  past,  finding  that  no  editor  had  need  of  me, 
that  it  would  be  imprudent  to  ask  him  to  have  need  of  me,  and 
moreover  that  booksellers  now  would  print  books  for  nothing,  I 
have  again  been  resolute  about  the  writing  of  a  book,  and  even 
working  in  the  direction  of  one.  Subject,  ‘  The  French  Revolu- 
tion.’  Whole  boxes  of  books  about  me.  Gloomy,  huge,  of  almost 
boundless  meaning  ;  but  obscure,  dubious — all  too  deep  for  me ; 
will  and  must  do  my  best.  Alas  !  gleams,  too,  of  a  work  of  art  hover 
past  me  ;  as  if  this  should  be  a  work  of  art.  Poor  me  ! 

In  the  midst  of  innumerable  discouragements,  all  men  indiffer¬ 
ent  or  finding  fault,  let  me  mention  two  small  circumstances  that 
are  comfortable.  The  first  is  a  letter  from  some  nameless  Irish¬ 
man  in  Cork  to  another  here  (Fraser  read  it  to  me  without  names), 
actually  containing  a  true  and  one  of  the  friendliest  possible  rec¬ 
ognitions  of  me.  One  mortal  then  says  I  am  not  utterly  wrong. 
Blessings  on  him  for  it.  The  second  is  a  letter  I  got  to-day  from 
Emerson,  of  Boston  in  America ;  sincere,  not  baseless,  of  most  ex¬ 
aggerated  estimation.  Precious  is  man  to  man. 

It  was  long  ago  written,  ‘Woe  to  them  that  are  at  ease  in  Zion.’ 
Such  woe  at  least  is  not  thine  ! 

Tout  va  Men  ici ,  le  q>ain  manque. 

August  12. — Good  news  out  of  Annandale  that  they  are  all  well; 
the  like  from  Jack.  I  still  lonely,  how  lonely  !  Health  and  with 
it  spirits  fluctuating,  feeble,  usually  bad.  At  times  nothing  can 
exceed  my  gloom.  Foolish  weakling !  However,  so  it  is ;  light 
alternates  with  darkness ;  sorrow  itself  must  be  followed  by  cessa¬ 
tion  of  sorrow  :  which  is  joy.  As  yet  no  prospect  whatever.  Mill, 
I  discern,  has  given  Fox  the  editorship  of  that  new  Molesworth 
periodical ;  seems  rather  ashamed  of  it — d  la  bonne  heure  ;  is  it  not 
probably  better  so  ?  Trust  in  God  and  in  thyself !  Oh,  could  I 

but !  all  else  wrere  so  light,  so  trivial !  Enough  now. 

/ 

August  13. — Weary,  dispirited,  sick,  forsaken,  every  way  heavy 
laden !  cannot  tell  what  is  to  become  of  that  ‘  French  Revolution ;  ’ 
vague,  boundless,  without  form  and  void — Gott  hilf  mir  ! 

The  idea  of  not  very  distant  death  often  presents  itself  to  me, 
without  satisfaction,  yet  without  much  terror,  much  aversion — ein 


.  360  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

rerfehltes  Leben  ?  Poor  coward  !  At  lowest  I  say  nothing ;  what  I 
suffer  is,  as  much  as  may  he,  locked  up  within  myself.  A  long 
lane  that  has  no  turning?  Despair  not. 

IIow  to  keep  living  was  the  problem.  The  4  French 
Revolution,’  Carlyle  thought  at  this  time,  must  he  a  mere 
sketch ;  finished  and  sold  by  the  following  spring  if  he 
was  to  escape  entire  bankruptcy.  He  had  hoped  more 
than  he  knew  for  the  editorship  of  the  new  Review.  It 
had  been  given  to  Fox,  ‘as  the  safer  man.’ 

I  can  already  picture  to  myself  the  Radical  periodical  (he  wrote 
to  his  brother  John),  and  can  even  prophesy  its  destiny.  With 
mys^f  it  had  not  been  so ;  (but)  the  only  thing  certain  would 
have  been  difficulty,  pain,  and  contradiction,  which  I  should  prob¬ 
ably  have  undertaken;  which  I  am  far  from  breaking  my  heart 
that  I  have  missed.  Mill  likes  me  well,  and  on  his  embarrassed 
face,  when  Fox  happened  to  be  talked  of,  I  read  both  that  editor¬ 
ship  business,  and  also  that  Mill  had  known  my  wane  of  ifc,  which 
latter  was  all  I  desired  to  read.  As  you  well  say,  disappoint¬ 
ment  on  disappointment  only  simplifies  one’s  course ;  your  possi¬ 
bilities  become  diminished ;  your  choice  is  rendered  easier.  In 
general  I  abate  no  jot  of  confidence  in  myself  and  in  my  cause. 
Nay,  it  often  seems  to  me  as  if  the  extremity  of  suffering,  if  such 
were  appointed  me,  might  bring  out  an  extremity  of  energy  as  yet 
unknown  to  myself.  God  grant  me  faith,  clearness,  and  peace¬ 
ableness  of  heart.  I  make  no  other  prayer. 

Ho  doubt  it  was  hard  to  bear.  By  Mill,  if  by  no  one 
else,  Carlyle  thought  that  he  was  recognised  and  appre¬ 
ciated  ;  and  Mill  had  preferred  Fox  to  him.  The  Review 
fared  as  Carlyle  expected :  lived  its  short  day  as  long  as 
Moleswortlrs  money  held  out,  and  then  withered.  Per¬ 
haps,  as  he  said,  ‘  With  him  it  had  not  been  so.’  Yet  no 
one  who  knows  how  such  things  are  managed  could  blame 
Mill.  To  the  bookselling  world  Carlyle’s  name,  since  the 
appearance  of- 4  Sartor  Resartus’  in  ‘Fraser,’  had  become 
an  abomination,  and  so  far  was  Mill  from  really  altering 
his  own  estimate  of  Carlyle  that  he  offered  to  publish  the 


Twilight  before  Dawn. 


301 


£  Diamond  Necklace 7  as  a  book  at  liis  own  expense,  ‘  that 
he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  reviewing  it ! 5  Carlyle  at 
bottom  understood  that  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise, 
and  that  essentially  it  was  better  for  him  as  it  was.  Through 
his  own  thrift  and  his  wife’s  skill,  the  extremity  of  poverty 
never  really  came,  and  his  time  and  faculties  were  left  un¬ 
encumbered  for  his  own  work.  Even  of  Fox  himself, 
whom  he  met  at  a  dinner-party,  he  could  speak  kindly ; 
not  unappreciatively.  The  cloud  lifted  now  and  then, 
oftener  probably  than  his  diary  would  lead  one  to  suppose. 
Carlyle’s  sense  of  the  ridiculous — stronger  than  that  of  any 
contemporary  man — was  the  complement  to  his  dejection. 
In  his  better  moments  he  could  see  and  enjoy  the  brighter 
side  of  his  position.  On  the  15th  of  August,  two  days 
after  he  had  been  meditating  on  his  verfehltes  Leben ,  ho 
could  write  to  his  brother  in  a  happier  tone. 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Naples. 

5  Cheyne  Row  :  August  15. 

All  of  us  have  tolerable  health,  Jane  generally  better  than  be¬ 
fore  ;  I  certainly  not  worse,  and  now  more  in  the  ancient  accus¬ 
tomed  fashion.  I  am  diligent  with  the  shower-bath  ;  my  pilgrim¬ 
ages  to  the  Museum  and  on  other  town  errands  keep  me  in  walking 
enough ;  once  or  twice  weekly  on  an  evening  Jane  and  I  stroll 
out  along  the  bank  of  the  river  or  about  the  College,  and  see  white- 
shirted  Cockneys  in  their  green  canoes,  or  old  pensioners  pensively 
smoking  tobacco.  The  London  street  tumult  has  become  a  kind 
of  marching  music  to  me  ;  I  walk  along  following  my  own  medi¬ 
tations  without  thinking  of  it.  Company  comes  in  desirable  quan¬ 
tity,  not  deficient,  not  excessive,  and  there  is  talk  enough  from 
time  to  time.  I  myself,  however,  when  I  consider  it,  find  the 
whole  all  too  thin,  unnutritive,  unavailing.  All  London-born  men, 
without  exception,  seem  to  me  narrow  built,  considerably  per¬ 
verted  men,  rather  fractions  of  a  man.  Hunt,  by  nature  a  very 
clever  man,  is  one  instance  ;  Mill,  in  quite  another  manner,  is  an¬ 
other.  These  and  others  continue  to  come  about  me  as  with  the 
cheering  sound  of  temporary  music,  and  are  right  welcome  so.  A 


362 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


higher  co-operation  will  perhaps  somewhere  else  or  some  time 
lienee  disclose  itself. 

There  was  a  piper  had  a  cow, 

And  he  had  nought  to  give  her  ; 

He  took  his  pipes  and  played  a  spring, 

And  bade  the  cow  consider. 

Allan  Cunningham  was  here  two  nights  ago  :  very  friendly,  full 
of  Nithsdale,  a  pleasant  Naturmensch.  Mill  gives  me  logical  de¬ 
velopments  of  how  men  act  (chiefly  in  politics) ;  Hunt,  tricksy  de¬ 
vices  and  crotchety  whimsicalities  on  the  same  theme.  What  they 
act  is  a  thing  neither  of  them  much  sympathises  in,  much  seems 
to  know.  I  sometimes  long  greatly  for  Irving — for  the  old  Irving 
of  fifteen  years  ago ;  nay,  the  poor  actual  gift-of-tongues  Irving 
has  seemed  desirable  to  me.  We  dined  with  Mrs.  (Platonica) 
Taylor  and  the  Unitarian  Fox  one  day.  Mill  was  also  of  the 
party,  and  the  husband — an  obtuse,  most  joyous-natured  man,  the 
pink  of  social  hospitality.  Fox  is  a  little  thickset,  busky-locked 
man  of  five  and  forty,  with  bright,  sympathetic,  thoughtful  eyes, 
with  a  tendency  to  pot-belly  and  snuffiness.  From  these  hints  you 
can  construe  him  ;  the  best  Socinian  philosophist  going,  but  not  a 
\Whit  more.  I  shall  like  well  enough  to  meet  the  man  again,  but 
I  doubt  he  will  not  me.  Mrs.  Taylor  herself  did  not  yield  un¬ 
mixed  satisfaction,  I  think,  or  receive  it.  She  affects,  with  a  kind 
of  sultana  noble-mindedness,  a  certain  girlish  petulance,  and  felt 
that  it  did  not  wholly  prosper.  We  walked  home,  however,  even 
Jane  did,  all  the  way  from  the  Regent’s  Park,  and  felt  that  we 
had  done  a  duty.  For  me,  from  the  Socinians  as  I  take  it,  wird 
nichts. 

The  £  French  Revolution  ’  perplexes  me  much.  More  books  on 
it,  I  find,  are  but  a  repetition  of  those  before  read  ;  I  learn  noth¬ 
ing,  or  almost  nothing,  further  by  books,  yet  am  I  as  far  as  possi¬ 
ble  from  understanding  it.  BedenMiclikeiten  of  all  kinds  environ 
me.  To  be  true  or  not  to  be  true  :  there  is  the  risk.  And  then 
to  be  popular ,  or  not  to  be  popular  ?  That,  too,  is  a  question  that 
plays  most  completely  with  the  other.  We  shall  see ;  we  shall 
try.  Par  ma  tete  seule  ! 

My  good  Jack  has  now  a  clear  view  of  me.  We  may  say,  in  the 
words  of  the  Sansculotte  Deputy  writing  to  the  Convention  of  the 
Progress  of  Right  Principles,  Tout  va  hien  id,  le  pain  manque  ! 
Jane  and  I  often  repeat  this  with  laughter.  But  in  truth  we  live 
very  cheap  here  (perhaps  not  much  above  50/.  a-year  dearer  than 


Visit  to  Irving. 


363 

at  Puttock),  and  so  can  hold  out  a  long  while  independent  of 
chance.  Utter  poverty  itself  (if  I  hold  fast  by  the  faith)  has  no 
terrors  for  me,  should  it  ever  come. 

I  told  you  I  had  seen  Irving.  It  was  but  yesterday  in  Newman 
Street,  after  four  prior  ineffectual  attempts.  William  Hamilton, 
who  was  here  on  Saturday,  told  me  Irving  was  grown  worse  again, 
and  Mrs.  Irving  had  been  extremely  ill ;  he,  too,  seemed  to  think 
my  cards  had  been  withheld.  Much  grieved  at  this  news,  I  called 
once  more  on  Monday  :  a  new  failure.  Yesterday  I  went  again, 
with  an  insuppressible  indignation  mixed  with  my  pity ;  after 
some  shying  I  was  admitted.  Poor  Irving  !  he  lay  there  on  a  sofa, 
begged  my  pardon  for  not  rising  ;  his  wife,  who  also  did  not,  and, 
probably,  could  not  well  rise,  sate  at  his  feet  all  the  time  I  was 
there,  miserable  and  haggard.  Irving  once  lovingly  ordered  her 
av7ay ;  but  she  lovingly  excused  herself,  and  sate  still.  He  com¬ 
plains  of  biliousness,  of  pain  at  his  right  short  rib  ;  has  a  short, 
thick  cough,  which  comes  on  at  the  smallest  irritation.  Poor  fel¬ 
low,  I  brought  a  short  gleam  of  old  Scottish  laughter  into  his 
face,  into  his  voice  ;  and  that,  too,  set  him  coughing.  He  said  it 
wras  the  Lord’s  will ;  looked  weak,  dispirited,  partly  embarrassed. 
He  continues  toiling  daily,  though  the  doctor  says  rest  only  can 
cure  him.  Is  it  not  mournful,  hyper-tragical?  There  are  mo¬ 
ments  when  I  determine  on  sweeping  in  upon  all  tongue  work  and 
accursed  choking  cobwebberies,  and  snatching  aw7ay  my  old  best 
friend,  to  save  him  from  death  and  the  grave. 

So  passed  on  the  first  summer  of  Carlyle’s  life  in  Lon¬ 
don.  4  The  weather,’  he  says,  c  defying  it  in  hard,  almost 
brimless  hat,  which  was  obligato  in  that  time  of  slavery, 
did  sometimes  throw  me  into  colic.’  Li  the  British  Mu¬ 
seum  lay  concealed  somewhere  6  a  collection  of  French 
pamphlets  ’  on  the  Revolution,  the  completest  in  the 
wTorld,  which,  after  six  weeks’  wrestle .  with  officiality, 
he  was  obliged  to  find  ‘  inaccessible  ’  to  him.  Idle  ob¬ 
struction  will  put  the  most  enduring  of  men  now  and  then 
out  of  patience,  and  Carlyle  was  not  enduring  in  such 
matters  ;  but  his  wife  was  able  on  the  first  of  September 
to  send  to  Scotsbrig  a  very  tolerable  picture  of  his  con¬ 
dition. 


364 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea  :  September  1,  1834. 

My  dear  Mother, — Could  I  have  supposed  it  possible  that  any 
mortal  was  so  stupid  as  not  to  feel  disappointed  in  receiving  a 
letter  from  me  instead  of  my  husband,  I  should  have  written  to 
you  very  long  ago.  But  while  this  humility  becomes  me,  it  is  also 
my  duty  (too  long  neglected)  to  send  a  little  adjunct  to  my  hus¬ 
band’s  letters,  just  to  assure  you  ‘  with  my  own  hand  ’  that  I  con¬ 
tinue  to  love  you  amidst  the  hubbub  of  this  ‘  noble  city  ’ 1  just  the 
same  as  in  the  quiet  of  Craigenputtock,  and  to  cherish  a  grateful 
recollection  of  your  many  kindnesses  to  me  ;  especially  of  that 
magnanimous  purpose  to  ‘  sit  at  my  bedside  ’  through  the  night 
preceding  my  departure,  ‘  that  I  might  be  sure  to  sleep.’  I  cer¬ 
tainly  shall  never  forget  that  night,  and  the  several  preceding  and 
following :  but  for  the  kindness  and  helpfulness  shown  me  on  all 
hands  I  must  have  traiked,'2  one  would  suppose.  I  had  every  rea¬ 
son  to  be  thankful  then  to  Providence  and  my  friends,  and  I  have 
had  the  same  reason  since. 

All  things  since  we  came  here  have  gone  more  smoothly  with  us 
than  I  at  all  anticipated.  Oar  little  household  has  been  set  up 
again  at  a  quite  moderate  expense  of  money  and  trouble ;  wherein, 
I  cannot  help  thinking,  with  a  chastened  vanity ,  that  the  superior 
shiftiness  and  thriftiness  of  the  Scotch  character  has  strikingly 
manifested  itself.  The  English  women  turn  up  the  whites  of 
their  eyes  and  call  on  the  ‘  good  heavens  ’  at  the  bare  idea  of  en¬ 
terprises  which  seem  to  me  in  the  most  ordinary  course  of  human 
affairs.  I  told  Mrs.  Hunt  one  day  I  had  been  very  busy  painting. 
‘  What  ?  ’  she  asked ;  ‘  is  it  a  portrait  ?  ’  Oh  no,  I  told  her,  some¬ 
thing  of  more  importance  :  a  large  'wardrobe.  She  could  not 
imagine ;  she  said,  ‘  how  I  could  have  patience  for  such  things.’ 
And  so,  having  no  patience  for  them  herself,  what  is  the  result  ? 
She  is  every  other  day  reduced  to  borrow  my  tumblers,  my  tea¬ 
cups  ;  even  a  cupful  of  porridge,  a  few  spoonfuls  of  tea  are  begged 
of  me,  because  ‘  Missus  has  got  company,  and  happens  to  be  out 
of  the  article  ;  *  in  plain,  unadorned  English,  because  ‘  missus  ’  is 
the  most  wretched  of  managers,  and  is  often  at  the  point  of  not 
having  a  copper  in  her  purse.  To  see  how  they  live  and  waste 

1  Phrase  of  Basil  Montagu’s. — T.  C.’ 

2  ‘  “Traiked ”  means  perished.  Contemptuous  term,  applied  to  cattle,  <&c. 
Traik  =  German  dreck. — T.  C.’ 


French  Revolution. 


365 


here,  it  is  a  wonder  the  whole  city  does  not  1  bankrape  1  and  go 
out  of  sicht ;  ’  flinging  platefuls  of  what  they  are  pleased  to  de¬ 
nominate  ‘  crusts  ’  (that  is,  what  I  consider  the  best  of  the  bread) 
into  the  ashpits.  I  often  say  with  honest  self-congratulation,  ‘  In 
Scotland  we  have  no  such  thing  as  crusts.’  On  the  whole, 
though  the  English  ladies  seem  to  have  their  wits  more  at  their 
finger-ends,  and  have  a  great  advantage  over  me  in  that  respect,  I 
never  cease  to  be  glad  that  I  was  born  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Tweed,  and  that  those  who  are  nearest  and  dearest  to  me  are 
Scotch. 

I  must  tell  you  what  Carlyle  will  not  tell  of  himself,  that  he  is 
rapidly  mending  of  his  Craigenputtock  gloom  and  acerbity.  He 
is  really  at  times  a  tolerably  social  character,  and  seems  to  be 
regarded  with  a  feeling  of  mingled  terror  and  love  in  all  com¬ 
panies,  which  I  should  think  the  diffusion  of  Teufelsdrockli  will 
fend  to  increase. 

I  have  just  been  called  away  to  John  Macqueen,  who  was  fol¬ 
lowed  by  a  Jock  Thomson,  of  Annan,  whom  I  received  in  my 
choicest  mood  to  make  amends  for  Carlyle’s  unreadiness,2  who 
wras  positively  going  to  let  him  leave  the  door  without  asking 
him  in,  a  neglect  which  he  would  have  reproached  himself  for 
after. 

My  love  to  all.  Tell  my  kind  Mary  to  write  to  me  ;  she  is  the 
only  one  that  ever  does. 

Your  affectionate, 

Jane  W.  Carlyle. 

Carlyle’s  letter  under  the  same  cover  (franked  by  Sir 
John  Romilly)  communicates  that  the  writing  of  the 
6  French  Revolution’  was  actually  begun. 

Of  Chelsea  news  we  have  as  good  as  none  to  send  you,  which, 
indeed,  means  intrinsically  good  enough  news.  We  go  on  in  the 
old  fashion,  adhering  pretty  steadily  to  our  work,  and  looking  for 

1  ‘  To  “bankrape  ”  is  to  “  bankrupt  ”  (used  as  a  verb  passive).  “  And  then 
he  bankrapit  and  gaed  out  of  sicht.”  A  phrase  of  my  father’s  in  the  little 
sketches  of  Annandale  biography  he  would  sometimes  give  me. — T.  C.’ 

2  ‘  Macqueen  and  Thomson  were  two  big  graziers  of  respectability — Mac- 
queen  a  native  of  Craigenputtock.  Thomson,  from  near  Annan,  had  been  a 
schoolfellow  of  mine.  They  had  called  here  without  very  specific  errand ; 
and  I  confess  what  the  letter  intimates  (of  my  silent  wish  to  have  evaded  such 
interruption,  &c.)  is  the  exact  truth. — T.  C.’ 


366 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

onr  main  happiness  in  that.  This  is  the  dull  season  in  London, 
and  several  of  our  friends  are  fled  to  the  country.  However,  we 
have  still  a  fair  allowance  of  company  left  us ;  and  what  is  best, 
the  company  we  have  is  none  of  it  bad,  or  merely  ‘a  consuming  of 
time,’  but  rational  and  leads  to  something.  The  best  news  I  have 
is  that  this  day  (September  1)  I  mean  to  begin  writing  my  book ; 
nay,  had  it  not  been  for  the  present  sheet,  would  already  have 
been  at  it !  Wish  me  good  speed ;  I  have  meditated  the  business 
as  I  could,  and  must  surely  strive  to  do  my  best.  With  a  kind  of 
trembling  hope  I  calculate  that  the  enterprise  may  prosper  with 
me ;  that  the  book  may  be  at  least  a  true  one,  and  tend  to  do 
God’s  service,  not  the  Devil’s.  It  will  keep  me  greatly  on  the 
stretch  these  winter  months,  but  I  hope  to  have  it  printed  and 
out  early  in  sirring ;  what  is  to  be  done  next,  we  shall  then  see. 
The  world  must  be  a  tougher  article  than  I  have  ever  found  it,  if 
it  altogether  beats  me.  I  have  defied  it,  and  set  my  trust  elsewhere, 
and  so  it  can  do  whatsoever  is  permitted  and  appointed  it.  As  to 
our  other  doings  and  outlooks,  I  have  written  of  them  all  at  great 
length  to  Alick  the  other  day,  so  that  as  you  are  likely  to  see  his 
letter  I  need  not  dwell  on  them.  I  have  seen  Mill  and  various 
other  agreeable  persons  since  (for  our  company  comes  often  in 
rushes),  but  met  with  no  further  adventure. 

The  close  of  the  letter  refers  to  economics,  and  to 
the  generous  contributions  furnished  by  Scotsbrig  to  the 
Cheyne  Row  establishment. 

The  sheet  is  fading  very  fast ;  Jane’s  little  note  too  is  ready, 
and  I  have  still  some  business  to  do.  We  spoke  long  ago  about  a 
freight  of  eatable  goods  we  wanted  out  of  Annandale  at  the  fall  of 
the  year.  As  you  are  the  punctuallest  of  all,  I  will  now  specify 
the  whole  to  you,  that  you  may  bestir  yourself,  and  stir  up  others 
in  the  proper  quarter  to  be  getting  them  ready.  Here  is  the  list 
of  our  wants,  as  I  have  extracted  it  by  questions  out  of  Jane.  First, 
sixty  pounds  of  butter  in  two  equal  pigs  (the  butter  here  is  IQd.  a 
pound!);  secondly,  a  moderately- sized  sweet-milk  cheese;  next, 
two  smallish  bacon-liams  (your  beef-ham  was  just  broken  into  last 
week,  and  is  in  the  best  condition) ;  next,  about  fifteen  stone  of 
right  oatmeal  (or  even  more,  for  we  are  to  give  Hunt  some  stones 
of  it,  and  need  almost  a  pound  daily :  there  is  not  now  above  a 
stone  left) ;  and  after  that,  as  many  hundredweights  of  potatoes 
as  you  think  will  keep  (for  the  rule  of  it  is  this :  we  take  two 


John  Carlyle. 


367 


pounds  daily,  and  they  sell  here  at  three  halfpence,  or  at  lowest  a 
penny,  a  pound,  and  are  seldom  good)  :  all  this  got  ready  and 
packed  into  a  hogshead  or  two  will  reach  us  by  Whitehaven,  and 
we  will  see  how  it  answers. 

John  Carlyle  meanwhile  was  prospering  with  Lady  Clare, 
and  was  in  a  position  to  return  to  his  brother  the  gener¬ 
osity  of  earlier  days.  It  was  perfectly  true,  as  Carlyle  had 
said,  that  wiiat  any  one  of  the  family  possessed  the  others 
were  free  to  share  with  him.  In  September  John  sent 
home  130Z.  for  his  mother.1 

To  John  Carlyle ,  Rome. 

Chelsea :  September  21,  1834. 

Your  kind  letter,  my  dear  Jack,  was  read  over  with  a  feeling 
such  as  it  merited  :  it  went  nearer  my  heart  than  anything  ad¬ 
dressed  to  me  for  long.  I  am  not  sure  that  there  were  not  tears 
in  the  business,  but  they  were  not  sad  ones.  Your  offers  and  pur¬ 
poses  are  wrorthy  of  a  brother,  and  I  were  but  unworthy  if  I  met 
them  in  any  mean  spirit.  I  believe  there  is  no  other  man  living 
from  whom  such  offers  as  yours  were  other  to  me  than  a  pleasant 
sound  which  I  must  disregard;  but  it  is  not  so  with  these;  for  I 
actually  can  (without  damage  to  any  good  feeling  in  me),  and  will, 
if  need  be,  make  good  use  of  them.  We  will,  as  you  say,  stand 
by  one  another;  and  so  each  of  us,  were  all  other  men  arranged 
against  us,  have  one  friend.  Well  that  it  is  so.  Wohl  Him  dem  die 
Geburt  den  Bruder  gab.  I  will  not  speak  any  more  about  this,  but 
keep  it  laid  up  in  my  mind  as  a  thing  to  act  by.  I  feel,  as  I  once 
said,  double- strong  in  the  possession  of  my  poor  Do?'/,2  and  so  I 
suppose  we  shall  quarrel  many  times  yet,  and  instantly  agree 

1  Carlyle  carried  ifc  to  the  City  to  be  forwarded  to  the  bank  at  Dumfries, 
and  he  enlarged  his  experiences  of  London  on  the  way.  ‘  In  my  perambula¬ 
tions,’  he  said,  kI  came  upon  a  strange  anarchy  of  a  place — the  Stock  Ex¬ 
change.  About  a  hundred  men  were  jumping  and  jigging  about  in  a  dingy, 
contracted  apartment,  and  yelping  out  all  manner  of  sounds,  which  seemed 
to  be  auctioneer’s  offers,  not  without  much  laughter  and  other  miscellaneous 
tumult.  I  thought  of  the  words  “  trades’  contentious  hell”  ;  but  had  no  room 
for  reflections.  A  rednecked  official  coming  up  with  the  assurance  that  this 
place  was  “private,  sir,”  I  departed  with  a  “thousand  pardons”  and  satis¬ 
faction  that  I  had  seen  the  Domdaniel.  These  were  my  discoveries  in  the 
city.’ 

2  Family  nickname  for  John  Carlyle. 


368 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyl 'e. 


again,  and  argue  and  sympathise,  and  on  the  whole  stand  by  one 
another  through  good  and  evil,  and  turn  two  fronts  to  the  world 
while  we  are  both  spared  in  it.  Amen  !  There  are  many  wallow¬ 
ing  in  riches,  splendent  in  dignities,  who  have  no  such  possession 
as  this.  Let  us  be  thankful  for  it,  and  approve  ourselves  worthy 
of  it. 

I  have  not  yet  earned  sixpence  since  I  came  hither,  and  see  not 
that  I  am  advancing  towards  such  a  thing :  however,  I  do  not 
‘tine  heart.’  Indeed,  that  money  consideration  grvfcs  me  wonder¬ 
fully  little  sorrow ;  we  can  hold  out  a  long  time  yet.  It  is  very 
true  also  what  you  say,  that  soliciting  among  the  bibliopoles  were 
the  worst  policy.  Indeed  I  have  no  deeper  wish  than  that  bread 
for  me  of  the  brownest  sort  were  providable  elsewhere  than  with 
them.  We  shall  not  cease  to  try.  One  comfortable  thing  is  the 
constant  conviction  I  have  that  here  or  nowhere  is  the  place  for 
me.  I  must  swim  or  sink  here.  Withal,  too,  I  feel  the  influences 
of  the  place  on  me  rebuking  much  in  my  late  ways  of  writing  and 
speech :  within  my  own  heart  I  am  led  to  overhaul  many  things, 
and  alter  or  mourn  for  them.  I  might  say  generally  that  I  am 
leading  a  rather  painful  but  not  unprofitable  life.  At  spes  in - 
fracta  !  I  look  up  to  the  everlasting  sky,  and  with  the  azure  in¬ 
finitude  all  around  me  cannot  think  that  I  was  made  in  vain. 
These  things,  however,  I  do  not  wTell  to  speak  of  yet,  or  perhaps 
at  all.  The  best  news  is  that  I  have  actually  begun  that  ‘  French 
Revolution,’  and  after  two  weeks  of  blotching  and  bioring  .have 
produced — two  clean  pages  !  Ach  Gott !  But  my  hand  is  out ; 
and  I  am  altering  my  style  too,  and  troubled  about  many  things. 
Bilious,  too,  in  these  smothering,  windless  days.  It  shall  be  such 
a  book  :  quite  an  epic  poem  of  the  Revolution :  an  apotheosis  of 
Sansculottism  !  Seriously,  when  in  good  spirits  I  feel  as  if  there 
were  the  matter  of  a  very  considerable  work  within  me ;  but  the 
task  of  shaping  and  uttering  will  be  frightful.  Here,  as  in  so 
many  other  respects,  I  am  alone,  without  models,  without  limits 
(this  is  a  great  want),  and  must — just  do  the  best  I  can. 

The  expected  provision  barrels  from  Scotsbrig  were  long 
in  arriving,  and  Carlyle  had  to  quicken  the  family  move¬ 
ments  in  the  end  of  October  by  a  representation  of  the 
state  of  things  to  which  he  and  his  wife  were  reduced. 
4  It  will  seem  absurd  enough  to  tell  you,5  he  wrote  to  his 


Cheyne  Row  Economies. 


369 


mother,  4  that  we  are  in  haste  now  after  waiting  so  long ; 
but  the  truth  is,  our  meal  has  been  done  for  a  fortnight, 
and  we  have  the  strangest  shifts  for  a  supper.  Amongst 
others,  flour  porridge,  exactly  shoemaker’s  paste,  only 
clean ;  and  at  last  have  been  obliged  to  take  to  some  of 
the  Scotch  oatmeal  sold  in  the  shops  here — very  dear — 
fivepence  a  quart  by  measure — which  though  rough,  is 
quite  sound*  which  therefore  we  can  thankfully  use ;  so 
you  need  not  suppose  us  starving.  The  butter  too  is  al¬ 
most  always  excellent  (churned  I  believe  out  of  milk), 
at  the  easy  rate  of  sixteenpence  a  pound !  In  regard  to 
provision  I  shall  only  add  that  the  beef-ham  daily  plays  its 
part  at  breakfast,  and  proves  thoroughly  genuine.  The 
butcher  came  here  one  day  to  saw  the  bone  of  it,  and 
asked  with  amazement  whether  it  was  pork  or  not.  He 
had  never  heard  of  any  ham  but  a  bacon  one,  and  departed 
from  us  with  a  new  idea.  B.B. — We  get  coffee  to  break¬ 
fast  (at  eight  or  nearly  so),  have  very  often  mutton-chops  to 
dinner  at  three,  then  tea  at  six  ;  we  have  four  pennyworth 
of  cream,  two  pennyworth  of  milk  daily.  This  is  our  diet, 
which  I  know  you  would  rather  know  than  not  know.’ 

Tor  the  rest,  life  went  on  without  much  variety.  4  Bessy 
Barnet  ’  left  Cheyne  Bow  after  two  months,  being  obliged 
to  return  to  her  mother,  and  they  had  to  find  another  ser¬ 
vant  among  the  London  maids  of  all  work.  Carlyle 
crushed  down  his  dispiritment ;  found  at  any  rate  that 
4  nothing  like  the  deejp  sulkiness  of  Craigenputtock  ’  troub¬ 
led  him  in  London.  He  felt  that  4  he  was  in  the  right 
workshop  if  he  could  but  get  acquainted  with  the  tools.’ 

4  Teufelsdrockh,’  circulating  in  a  stitched-up  form,  made 
out  of  the  sheets  of  4  Fraser,’  was  being  read,  a  few  per¬ 
sons  really  admiring  it;  the  generality  turning  up  their 
eyes  in  speechless  amazement.  Irving  had  departed,  hav¬ 
ing  gone  to  Scotland,  where  he  was  reported  as  lying  ill  at 
Glasgow,  and,  to  Carlyle’s  very  deep  distress,  likely  to  die. 

Vol.  II.— 24 


370 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

Among  minor  adventures,  Carlyle  was  present  at  the 
burning  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  4  The  crowd,’  he 
says,  4  was  quiet,  rather  pleased  than  otherwise ;  whewed 
and  whistled  when  the  breeze  came,  as  if  to  encourage  it. 
44  There’s  a  flare-up  for  the  House  of  Lords !  ”  44  A  judg¬ 

ment  for  the  Poor  Law  Bill !  ”  44  There  go  their  Ilacts  !  ” 
Such  exclamations  seemed  to  be  the  prevailing  ones :  a 
man  sorry  I  did  not  see  anywhere.’ 

Horny-handed  Padicalism  gave  Carlyle  a  grim  satisfac¬ 
tion.  He  considered  modern  society  so  corrupt  that  he 
expected,  or  rather  desired,  an  immediate  end  to  it.  But 
Padicalism,  too,  had  its  unfavourable  aspects,  especially 
when  it  showed  itself  in  the  direction  of  female  emancipa¬ 
tion. 

Mill  and  one  or  two  of  liis  set  (he  said)  are  on  the  whole  the 
reasonablest  jDeople  we  have.  However,  we  see  them  seldom,  be¬ 
ing  so  far  off,  and  Mill  himself,  who  would  be  far  the  best  of  them 
all,  is  greatly  occupied  of  late  times  with  a  set  of  quite  opposite 
character,  which  the  Austins  and  other  friends  mourn  much  and 
fear  much  over  ;  Fox  the  Socinian,  and  a  flight  of  really  wretched- 
looking  *  friends  of  the  species,’  who  (in  writing  and  deed)  strug¬ 
gle  not  in  favour  of  duty  being  done,  but  against  duty  of  any  sort 
being  required.  A  singular  creed  this;  but  I  can  assure  you  a 
very  observable  one  here  in  these  days :  by  me  deeply  hated  as 
the  glare  which  is  its  colour  [die  seine  Farbe  ist )  and  substance 
likewise  mainly.  Jane  and  I  often  say,  4  Before  all  mortals  beware 
of  friends  of  the  species  ’ !  Most  of  these  people  are  very  indig¬ 
nant  at  marriage  and  the  like,  and  frequently,  indeed,  are  obliged 
to  divorce  their  own  wives,  or  be  divorced  ;  for  though  this  world  is 
already  blooming  (or  is  one  day  to  do  it)  in  everlasting  1  happiness 
of  the  greatest  number,’  these  people’s  own  houses  (I  always  find) 
are  little  hells  of  improvidence,  discord,  and  unreason.  Mill  is  far 
above  all  that,  and  I  think  will  not  sink  into  it ;  however,  I  do  wish 
him  fairly  far  from  it,  and  though  I  cannot  speak  of  it  directly, 
would  fain  help  him  out.  He  is  one  of  the  best  people  I  ever  saw. 

The  next  letter  is  from  Mrs.  Carlyle,  which  Carlyle  in¬ 
terprets. 


Eliza  Miles. 


371 


6  Mournfully  beautiful,’  lie  says,  £  is  this  letter  to  me ;  a 
clear  little  household  light  shining  pure  and  brilliant  in 
the  dark  obstructive  places  of  the  past.  The  two  East 
Lothian  friends  are  George  Rennie  the  sculptor,  and  his 
pretty  sister,  wife  of  an  ex-Indian  ship  captain.’ 

‘Eliza  Miles  and  the  Mileses  are  the  good  people  in 
Ampton  Street  with  whom  we  lodged.  .Eliza,  their  daugh¬ 
ter,  felt  quite  captivated  with  my  Jane,  and  seems  to  have 
vowed  eternal  loyalty  to  her  almost  at  first  sight ;  was  for 
coming  to  be  our  servant  at  Craigenputtock  ;  actually  wrote 
proposing  it  then — a  most  tempting  offer  to  us,  had  not 
the  rough  element  and  the  delicate  aspirant  been  evidently 
irreconcilable  !  She  continued  to  visit  us  here  at  moderate 
intervals,  wrote  me,  after  my  calamity  befell,  the  one  let¬ 
ter  of  condolence  I  could  completely  read.  She  was  a  very 
pretty  and  to  us  interesting  specimen  of  the  London  maiden 
of  the  middle  classes ;  refined,  polite,  pious,  clever  both  of 
hand  and  mind.  Iso  gentlewoman  could  have  a  more  up¬ 
right,  modest,  affectionate,  and  unconsciously  high  demean¬ 
our.  Iler  father  had  long  been  in  a  prosperous  upholsterer  s 
business,  but  the  firm  had  latterly  gone  away.  He  was  a 
very  good-natured,  respectable  man,  quietly  much  sym¬ 
pathised  with  in  his  own  house.  Eliza,  with  her  devout 
temper,  had  been  drawn  to  Edward  Irving,  went  daily 
alone  of  her  family  to  his  chapel  in  those  years  1831-2, 
and  was  to  the  last  one  of  his  most  reverent  disciples.  She 
did  in  her  soft,  loyal  way  right  well  in  the  world  ;  married 
poorly  enough,  but  wisely,  and  is  still  living  a  rich  man’s 
wife  and  the  mother  of  prosperous  sons  and  daughters. 

6  “  Buffer’s  Radical  meeting  ”  was  a  meeting  privately 
got  up  bv  Charles  Buffer,  but  ostensibly  managed  by  others, 
which  assembled  itself  largely  and  with  emphasis  at  the 
London  Tavern,  to  say  what  it  thought  of  the  first  re-ap¬ 
pearance  of  Peel  and  Co.  after  the  Reform  Biff — u  first 
Peel  Ministry,”  which  lasted  only  a  short  time.  I  duly 


372  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyte. 

attended  the  meeting  (never  another  in  my  life),  and  re^ 
membered  it  well.  Had  some  interest — not  much.  The 
two  thousand  human  figures,  wedged  in  the  huge  room 
into  one  dark  mass,  were  singular  to  look  down  upon,  sin¬ 
gular  to  hear  their  united  voice  coming  clearly  as  from  one 
heart,  their  fiery  “Yes,”  their  sternly  bellowing  “Ho.”  I 
could  notice  too  what  new  laws  there  were  of  speaking  to 
such  a  mass  :  no  matter  how  intensely  consentaneous  your 
two  thousand  were,  and  how  much  you  agi'eed  with  every 
one  of  them,  you  must  likewise  begin  where  they  began, 
follow  pretty  exactly  their  sequence  of  thoughts,  or  they 
lost  sight  of  your  intention,  and  for  noise  of  contradiction 
to  you  and  to  one  another  you  could  not  be  heard  at  all. 
That  was  new  to  me,  that  second  thing,  and  little  or  nothing 
else  was.  In  the  speeches  I  had  no  interest  except  a  phe¬ 
nomenal  ;  indeed,  had  to  disagree  throughout  more  or  less 
with  every  part  of  them.  Roebuck  knew  the  art  best, 
kept  the  two  thousand  in  constant  reverberation,  more  and 
more  rapturous,  by  his  adroitly  correct  series  of  common¬ 
places.  John  Crawford,  much  more  original,  lost  the 
series,  and  had  to  sit  down  again  ignominiously  unheard. 
I  walked  briskly  home  much  musing.  Found  her  waiting, 
eager  enough  for  any  news  I  had. — T.  C.’ 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea  :  November  21,  1834. 

My  dear  Mother, — Now  that  franks  are  come  back  into  the 
world,  one  need  not  wait  for  an  inspired  moment  to  write  ;  if  one’s 
letter  is  worth  nothing  it  costs  nothing ;  nor  will  any  letter  that 
tells  you  of  our  welfare  and  assures  you  of  our  continual  affection 
be  worth  nothing  in  your  eyes,  however  destitute  of  news  or  any¬ 
thing  else  that  might  make  it  entertaining. 

The  weather  is  grown  horridly  cold,  and  I  am  chiefly  intent,  at 
present,  on  getting  my  winter  wardrobe  into  order.  I  have  made 
up  the  old  black  gown,  which  was  dyed  puce  for  me  at  Dumfries, 
with  my  own  hands.  It  looks  twenty  per  cent,  better  than  when  it 
was  new ;  and  I  shall  get  no  other  this  winter.  I  am  now  turning 


Neighbors  at  Cheyne  Row.  373 

mv  pelisse.  I  went  yesterday  to  a  milliner  to  buy  a  bonnet.  An 
old,  very  ugly  lady,  upwards  of  seventy  I  am  sure,  wras  bargaining 
about  a  cloak  at  the  same  place ;  it  was  a  fine  affair  of  satin  and 
violet;  but  slie  declared  repeatedly  that  ‘it  had  no  air,’  and  for 
lier  part  she  could  not  put  on  such  a  thing.  My  bonnet,  I  flatter 
myself,  has  an  air.  A  little  brown  feather  nods  over  the  front  of 
it,  and  the  crown  points  like  a  sugar-loaf !  The  diameter  of  the 
fashionable  ladies  at  present  is  about  three  yards  ;  their  hustles  are 
the  size  of  an  ordinary  sheep’s  fleece.  The  very  servant  girls  wear 
bustles.  Eliza  Miles  told  me  a  maid  of  theirs  went  out  one  Sun¬ 
day  with  three  kitchen  dusters  pinned  on  as  a  substitute. 

The  poor  Mileses  are  in  great  affliction.  Mr.  Miles  about  the 
time  w'e  came  to  London  got  into  an  excellent  situation,  and  they 
were  just  beginning  to  feel  independent,  and  look  forward  to  a 
comfortable  future,  when  one  morning,  about  a  week  ago,  Mr. 
Miles,  in  walking  through  his  warerooms,  was  noticed  to  stagger, 
and  one  of  the  men  ran  and  caught  him  as  he  was  falling.  He  was 
carried  to  a  public-house  close  by,  his  own  house  being  miles  off, 
and  his  wife  and  daughter  sent  for.  He  never  spoke  to  them, 
could  never  be  removed,  but  there,  in  the  midst  of  confusion  and 
riot,  they  sate  watching  him  for  twTo  days,  when  he  expired.  I 
went  up  to  see  them  so  soon  as  I  heard  of  their  misfortune.  The 
wife  was  confined  to  bed  with  inflammation  in  her  head.  Poor 
Eliza  was  up  and  resigned-looking,  but  the  picture  of  misery.  A 
gentleman  from  Mr.  Irving’s  church  was  with  her,  saying  what  he 
could. 

Mrs.  Montagu  has  quite  given  us  up ;  but  we  still  find  it  possible 
to  carry  on  existence.  I  offended  her  by  taking  in  Bessy  Barnet, 
in  the  teeth  of  her  vehement  admonition,  and  now  I  suppose  she 
is  again  offended  that  I  should  receive  a  discharged  servant  of  her 
daughter-in-law’s.  I  am  sorry  that  she  should  be  so  whimsical, 
for  as  she  was  my  first  friend  in  London  I  continue  to  feel  a  sort 
of  tenderness  for  her  in  spite  of  many  faults  which  cleave  to  her. 
But  her  society  can  quite  readily  be  dispensed  with  nevertheless  ; 
we  have  new  acquaintances  always  turning  up,  and  a  pretty 
handsome  stock  of  old  ones. 

A  brother  and  sister,  the  most  intimate  friends  I  ever  had  in 
East  Lothian,  live  quite  near  (for  London),  and  I  have  other  East 
Lothian  acquaintances.  Mrs.  Hunt  I  shall  soon  be  quite  termi¬ 
nated  with,  I  foresee.  She  torments  my  life  out  with  borrowing. 
She  actually  borrowed  one  of  the  brass  fenders  the  other  day,  and 


374: 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

I  had  difficulty  in  getting  it  out  of  her  hands ;  irons,  glasses,  tea* 
cups,  silver  spoons  are  in  constant  requisition,  and  when  one  sends 
for  them  the  whole  number  can  never  be  found.  Is  it  not  a  shame 
to  manage  so  with  eight  guineas  a  week  to  keep  house  on  ?  It 
makes  me  very  indignant  to  see  all  the  waste  that  goes  on  around 
me,  when  I  am  needing  so  much  care  and  calculation  to  make 
ends  meet ;  when  we  dine  out,  to  see  as  much  expended  on  a  des¬ 
sert  of  fruit  (for  no  use  but  to  give  people  a  colic)  as  would  keep 
us  in  necessaries  for  two  or  three  weeks.  My  present  maid  has  a 
grand-uncle  in  town  with  upwards  of  a  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
who  drives  Iris  carriage  and  all  that ;  at  a  great  dinner  he  had  he 
gave  five  pounds  for  a  couple  of  pine-apples  when  scarce ;  and 
here  is  his  niece  working  all  the  year  through  for  eight,  and  he 
has  never  given  her  a  farthing  since  she  came  to  London. 

My  mother  gave  a  good  account  of  your  looks.  I  hope  you  will 
go  and  see  her  again  for  a  longer  time ;  she  was  so  gratified  by 
your  visit.  I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  her,  most  satisfactory, 
telling  me  all  she  knows  about  any  of  you.  She  gives  a  wonder¬ 
ful  account  of  some  transcendent  ally  beautiful  shawl  which  Jean 
had  made  her  a  present  of.  I  am  sure  never  present  gave  more 
contentment. 

Carlyle  is  going  to  a  Kadical  meeting  to-night ;  but  there  is 
no  fear  of  his  getting  into  mischief.  Curiosity  is  his  only  motive ; 
and  I  must  away  to  the  butcher  to  get  his  dinner.  I  wish  you 
may  be  able  to  read  what  I  have  written.  I  write  with  a  steel  pen, 
which  is  a  very  unpliable  concern,  and  has  almost  cut  into  my 
finger.  God  bless  you  all.  A  kiss  to  Mary’s  new  baby  when  yon 
see  it. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Carlyle. 

c  Above  a  month  before  this  date,’  Carlyle  adds,  £Ed 
ward  Irving  rode  to  the  door  one  evening,  came  in  and 
stayed  with  us  some  twenty  minutes — the  one  call  we  ever 
had  of  him  here ;  his  farewell  before  setting  out  to  ride 
towards  Glasgow,  as  the  doctors,  helpless  otherwise,  had 
ordered.  lie  was  very  friendly,  calm,  and  affectionate ; 
chivalrously  courteous  to  her ,  as  I  remember.  “  Ah,  yes,” 
looking  round  the  room,  “you  are  like  an  Eve — make 
every  place  you  live  in  beautiful.”  He  was  not  sad  in 


375 


Death  of  Irving. 

manner,  but  was  at  heart,  as  von  could  notice,  serious,  even 
solemn.  Darkness  at  hand  and  the  weather  damp,  he 
could  not  loiter.  I  saw  him  mount  at  the  door;  watched 
till  he  turned  the  first  corner,  close  by  the  rector’s  garden 
door,  and  had  vanished  from  us  altogether.  lie  died  at 
Glasgow  before  the  end  of  December.’ 

Ir  ving  was  dead,  and  with  it  closed  the  last  chapter  of 
Jane  Welsh’s  early  romance.  Much  might  be  said  of  the 
effect  of  it  both  on  Irving  and  on  her.  The  characters  of 
neither  of  them  escaped  unscathed  by  the  passionate  love 
which  had  once  existed  between  them.  But  all  that  is 
gone,  and  concerns  the  world  no  longer.  I  will  add  only 
an  affectionately  sorrowful  letter  which  Carlyle  wrote  at 
the  time  to  his  mother  when  the  news  from  Glasgow 
came. 

To  Mrs.  Carlyle ,  Scotsbrig. 

Chelsea :  December  24,  1834. 

Toor  Edward  Irving,  as  you  have  heard,  has  ended  his  pilgrim¬ 
age.  I  had  been  expecting  that  issue,  but  not  so  soon  ;  the  news 
of  his  death,  which  Eraser  the  bookseller  (once  a  hearer  of  his) 
communicated  quite  on  a  sudden,  struck  me  deeply ;  and  the  wae 
feeling  of  what  it  has  all  been,  and  what  it  has  all  ended  in,  kept 
increasing  with  me  for  the  next  ten  days.  Oh,  what  a  wild,  welter¬ 
ing  mass  of  confusion  is  this  world  !  how  its  softest  batterings  are 
but  bewitchments,  and  lead  men  down  to  the  gates  of  darkness ! 
Nothing  is  clearer  to  me  than  that  Irving  was  driven  half  mad, 
and  finally  killed,  simply  by  what  once  seemed  his  enviable  for¬ 
tune,  and  by  the  hold  it  took  of  him ;  killed  as  certainly  (only  a 
little  more  slowly)  as  if  it  had  been  a  draught  of  sweetened  ar¬ 
senic  !  I  am  very  sad  about  him  :  ten  years  ago,  when  I  was  first 
here,  what  a  rushing  and  running ;  his  house  never  empty  of  idle 
or  half-earnest,  wondering  people,  with  their  carriages  and  equip¬ 
ments  ;  and  now,  alas,  it  is  all  gone,  marched  like  a  deceitful 
vision ;  and  all  is  emptiness,  desertion,  and  his  place  knows  him 
no  more !  He  was  a  good  man  too  ;  that  I  do  heartily  believe  ;  his 
faults,  we  may  hope,  were  abundantly  expiated  in  this  life,  and 
now  his  memory — as  that  of  the  just  ought — shall  be  hallowed 
with  us.  One  thing  with  another,  I  have  not  found  another  such 


376 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 

man.  I  shall  never  forget  these  last  times  I  saw  him ;  I  longed 
much  to  help  him,  to  deliver  him,  but  could  not  do  it.  My  poor 
first  friend — my  first,  and  best !  Fraser  applied  to  me  to  write  a 
word  about  him ;  which  I  did,  and,  after  much  hithering  and 
thithering,  I  ascertain  to-day  that  it  is  at  last  to  be  printed  1  (in 
some  tolerable  neighbourhood,  for  we  discorded  about  that)  in 
his  magazine.  I  will  send  you  a  copy  of  it,  and  another  for  his 
mother,  which  you  may  deliver  her  yourself.  Go  and  see  the  poor 
old  forsaken  widow  :  it  will  do  her  good,  and  yourself.  Tell  her 
that  her  son  did  not  live  for  Time  only,  but  for  Eternity  too ;  that 
he  has  fought  the  good  fight,  as  we  humbly  trust,  and  is  not  dead 
but  sleepetli.  There  are  few  women  whom  I  pity  more  than  poor 
old  Mrs.  Irving  at  this  moment :  few  years  ago  all  was  prosperous 
with  her :  she  had  sons,  a  cheerful  household ;  could  say,  Oh , 
Edward,  I  am  proud  of  ye:  now  ‘ruin’s  ploughshare’  has  passed 
over  her,  and  it  is  all  fled. 

Tenderly,  beautifully,  Carlyle  could  feel  for  his  friend. 
Ho  more  touching  ‘  funeral  oration  ’  was  ever  uttered  over 
a  lost  companion  than  in  the  brief  paper  of  which  here 
he  spoke  ;  and  his  heart  at  the  time  was  heavy  for  himself 
also.  He  had  almost  lost  hope.  At  no  past  period  of 
his  life  does  the  Journal  show  more  despondency  than  in 
this  autumn  and  winter.  He  might  repeat  his  mother’s 
words  to  himself,  ‘  tine  heart,  tine  a’.  ’  But  the  heart  was 
near  4  tilled  ’  for  all  that. 

Extracts  from  Journal. 

Monday,  September  8,  1834. — Pain  was  not  given  thee  merely  to 
be  miserable  under ;  learn  from  it,  turn  it  to  account. 

Yesterday  set  out  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Taylor— Jane  with  me. 
Broke  down  in  the  park  ;  honnte  nichts  mehr,  being  sick  and  weak 
beyond  measure  ;  sate  me  down  in  a  seat  looking  over  the  green 
with  its  groups,  Jane  gone  to  make  a  call  in  the  neighbourhood  ; 
Mrs.  Taylor  with  her  husband  make  their  appearance,  walking ; 
pale  she,  and  passionate  and  sad-looking  :  really  felt  a  kind  of 
interest  in  her. 

‘  French  Revolution  ’  begun,  but,  alas !  not  in  the  right  style, 
not  in  the  style  that  can  stand.  The  mind  has  not  yet  grappled 

1  Republished  in  the  fourth  volume  of  Carlyle’s  Miscellanies. 


The  Last  Effort.  377 

with  it  heartily  enough :  must  seize  it,  crush  the  secret  out  of  it, 
and  make  or  mar. 

Acknowledgments  of  ‘  Teufelsdrockh  ’  worthless  to  me  one  and 

all.  ‘  Madam,’  said  I  the  other  night  to  poor  hollow  Mrs.  - , 

‘  it  is  a  work  born  in  darkness,  destined  for  oblivion,  and  not  worth 
wasting  a  word  on.’ 

September  10. — ‘  French  Revolution  ’  shapeless,  dark,  unman¬ 
ageable.  Know  not  this  day,  for  example,  on  wliat  side  to  attack 
it ;  yet  must  forward.  One  of  the  things  I  need  most  is  to  subdue 
my  polemics,  my  ill-nature. 

m 

September  27. — Walk  in  the  evening  by  Millbank  and  the  dusty,  * 
desolate  shore  with  Jane:  gloom;  rest.  One  day  in  the  little 
garden  see  a  huge  spider  kill  a  fly ;  see  it  kill  a  second,  lift  some¬ 
thing  and  angrily  kill  it.  Consider  what  a  world  of  benevolence 
this  is  ;  how  many  forces  are  at  work  in  Nature  ;  how  multiplex, 
unfathomable  is  she. 

October  1. — This  morning  think  of  the  old  primitive  Edinburgh 
scheme  of  engineership  ;  1  almost  meditate  for  a  moment  resuming 
it  yet !  It  were  a  method  of  gaining  bread,  of  getting  into  con 
tact  with  men,  my  two  grand  wants  and  prayers.  In  general,  it 
may  be  said  no  man  ever  so  wanted  any  practical  adviser,  or 
shadow  of  one ;  it  is  utterly,  from  of  old  (and  even  the  very  ap¬ 
pearance  of  it),  withheld  from  me.  Sad  ;  not  irremediable  now. 
My  isolation,  my  feeling  of  loneliness,  unlimitedness  (much  meant 
by  this),  what  tongue  shall  tell  ?  Alone,  alone  !  Woes  too  deep 
— woes  which  cannot  be  written  even  here.  Patience,  unwearied 
endeavour ! 

Surprised  occasionally  and  grieved  to  find  myself  not  only  so 
disliked — suspected — but  so  known.  Though  at  Puttock  I  saw  no 
audience,  I  had  one,  and  often  (in  all  Whig  circles)  a  most  writh¬ 
ing  one.  Dommage  ?  Yes  and  no. 

Didst  thou  ever  hitherto  want  bread  and  clothes  ?  No.  Cour¬ 
age,  then  !  But  above  all  things,  diligence.  And  so  to  work. 

Sunday ,  October  5. — Calm,  smoky  weather.  A  pale  sun  gets  the 
better  of  Ihe  vapours  towards  noon,  the  sad  sinking  year.  See 
M’Culloch  and  speak  with  him.  Promise  to  see  him  again.  A 

1  After  throwing  up  the  law,  Carlyle  had  for  a  few  d  ays  thought  of  becom¬ 
ing  an  engineer. 


378 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


hempen  man,  but  genuine  hemp.  Hunt  invites  us  over  pressingly 
for  the  evening.  Go,  and  sit  talking ;  not  miserable,  yet  with  the 
deepest  sea  of  miseiy  lying  in  the  background.  ‘  Remote,  un¬ 
friended,  solitary,  low.’  Courage !  Do  not  tine  heart.  On  the 
whole,  how  much  have  I  to  learn !  Let  me  not  think  myself  too 
old  to  learn  it. 

Meanwhile  here  is  another  blessed,  still  day  given  me.  Let  me 
work  wisely  therein  while  it  lasts.  Oh  that  I  could  weep  and 
pray !  Does  a  God  hear  these  dumb  troublous  aspirations  of  my 
soul  ?  Credamus  !  ut  vivamus  ! 

November  1. — "What  a  long-drawn  wail  are  these  foregoing 
pages,  which  I  have  just  read !  Why  add  another  note  to  it  at 
present?  In  general,  except  when  writing,  I  never  feel  myself 
that  I  am  alive.  So  the  last  week  too  has  been  a  doleful  one. 
Complain  not.  Struggle,  thou  weakling. 

November  27. — It  is  many  days  since  I  have  written  aught  here  ; 
days  of  suffering,  of  darkness,  despondency  ;  great,  not  yet  too 
great  for  me.  Ill-health  has  much  to  do  with  it,  ill-success  with 
the  book  has  somewhat.  No  prospect,  no  definite  hope  nor  the 
slightest  ray  of  such.  Stand  to  thy  tackle !  Endure  !  Endeav¬ 
our  !  It  must  alter,  and  shall ;  but  on  with  this  present  task,  at 
any  rate.  That  thou  hast  clear  before  thee. 

Radical  meeting  (Buller’s)  at  the  City  of  London  Tavern  on 
Friday  night  last.  Meaning  of  a  multitude  of  men  :  their  fierce 
bark  (what  in  Annandale  we  call  a  gollie )  primary  indispensability 
of  lungs.  Radical  Murphy,  with  cylindrical  high  head  (like  a  water- 
can),  pot  belly,  and  voice  like  the  Great  Bell  of  Moscow.  All  in 
earnest.  Can  Wellington  stay  in?  for  long,  may  be  doubted. 
Peel  not  yet  heard  of. 

1835. — Twelve  o’clock  has  just  struck :  the  last  hour  of  1834, 
the  first  of  a  new  year.  Bells  ringing  (to  me  dolefully).  A  wet 
wind  blustering.  My  wife  in  bed,  very  unhappily  ill  of  a  foot 
which  the  puddle  of  a  maid  scalded  three  weeks  ago.  I,  *after  a 
day  of  fruitless  toil,  reading  and  re-reading  about  that  Versailles 
6th  of  October  still.  It  is  long  time  since  I  have  written  any¬ 
thing  here.  The  future  looks  too  black  round  me,  the  present  too 
doleful,  unfriendly.  I  am  too  sick  at  heart,  wearied,  wasted  in 
body,  to  complain,  even  to  myself.  My  first  friend  Edward  Irving 
is  dead  above  three  weeks  ago.  I  am  friendless  here,  or  as  good 


Tights  and  /Shadows . 


379 

as  that.  My  book  cannot  get  on,  though  I  stick  to  it  like  a  bur. 
Why  should  I  say  Peace,  peace,  when  there  is  no  peace  ?  May 
God  grant  me  strength  to  do  or  to  endure  aright  what  is  appointed 
me  in  this  coming,  now  commencing,  division  of  time.  Let  me 
not  despair — nay,  I  do  not  in  general.  Enough  to-night,  for  I  am 
done  !  Peace  be  to  my  mother  and  all  my  loved  ones  that  yet  live. 
What  a  noisy  inanity  in  this  world. 


With  these  words  I  close  the  story  of  Carlyle’s  appren¬ 
ticeship.  His  training  was  over.  lie  was  now  a  master 
in  his  craft,  on  the  eve,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  of 
universal  recognition  as  an  original  and  extraordinary  man. 
Henceforward  his  life  was  in  his  works.  The  outward  in¬ 
cidents  of  it  will  be  related  in  his  wife’s  letters  and  in 
his  own  explanatory  notes.  My  part  has  been  to  follow 
him  from  the  peasant's  home  in  which  he  was  born  and 
nurtured  to  the  steps  of  the  great  position  which  he  was 
afterwards  to  occupy  ;  to  describe  his  trials  and  his  strug¬ 
gles,  and  the  effect  of  them  upon  his  mind  and  disposi¬ 
tion.  He  has  been  substantially  his  own  biographer.  But 
no  one,  especially  no  one  of  so  rugged  and  angular  a  char¬ 
acter,  sees  the  lights  and  shadows  precisely  as  others  see 
them.  When  a  man  of  letters  has  exercised  an  influence 
so  vast  over  successive  generations  of  thinkers,  the  world 
has  a  right  to  know  the  minutest  particulars  of  his  life  ; 
and  the  sovereigns  of  literature  can  no  more  escape  from 
the  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a  throne,  than  the  kings 
and  ministers  who  have  ruled  the  destinies  of  states  and 
empires.  Carlyle  had  no  such  high  estimate  of  his  own 
consecpience.  His  poor  fortunes  he  considered  to  be  of 
moment  to  no  one  but  ‘himself ;  but  he  knew  that  the 
world  would  demand  an  account  of  him,  and  with  charac¬ 
teristic  unreserve  he  placed  his  journals  and  his  corre¬ 
spondence  in  my  hands  with  no  instructions  save  that  I 


380 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 

should  tell  the  truth  about  him,  and  if  shadows  there  were, 
that  least  of  all  should  I  conceal  them. 

If  in  this  part  of  my  duty  I  have  erred  at  all,  I  have 
erred  in  excess,  not  in  defect.  It  is  the  nature  of  men  to 
dwell  on  the  faults  of  those  who  stand  above  them.  They 
are  comforted  by  perceiving  that  the  person  whom  they 
have  heard  so  much  admired  was  but  of  common  clay  after 
all.  The  life  of  no  man,  authentically  told,  will  ever  be 
found  free  from  fault.  Carlyle  has  been  seen  in  these  vol¬ 
umes  lighting  for  thirty -nine  years — lighting  with  poverty, 
with  dyspepsia,  with  intellectual  temptations,  with  neglect 
or  obstruction  from  his  fellow-mortals.  Their  ways  were 
not  his  ways.  His  attitude  was  not  different  only  from 
their  attitude,  but  was  a  condemnation  of  it,  and  it  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  they  would  look  kindly  on  him. 
His  existence  hitherto  had  been  a  prolonged  battle  ;  a 
man  does  not  carry  himself  in  such  conflicts  so  wisely  and 
warily  that  he  can  come  out  of  them  unscathed ;  and  Car- 
lyle  carried  scars  from  his  wounds  both  on  his  mind  and 
on  his  temper.  He  had  stood  aloof  from  parties  ;  he  had 
fought  his  way  alone.  He  was  fierce  and  uncompromis¬ 
ing.  To  those  who  saw  but  the  outside  of  him  he  ap¬ 
peared  scornful,  imperious,  and  arrogant.  He  was  stern 
in  his  judgment  of  others.  The  sins  of  passion  he  could 
pardon,  but  the  sins  of  insincerity,  or  half-sincerity,  he 
could  never  pardon.  He  would  not  condescend  to  the 
conventional  politenesses  which  remove  the  friction  be¬ 
tween  man  and  man.  He  called  things  by  their  right 
names,  and  in  a  dialect  edged  with  sarcasm.  Thus  he  was 
often  harsh  when  he  ought  to  have  been  merciful ;  he  was 
contemptuous  where  he  had  no  right  to  despise  ;  and  in  his 
estimate  of  motives  and  actions  was  often  unjust  and  mis¬ 
taken.  He,  too,  who  was  so  severe  with  others  had  weak¬ 
nesses  of  his  own  of  which  he  was  unconscious  in  the  ex¬ 
cess  of  his  self-confidence.  He  was  proud — one  may  say 


Lights  and  Shadows. 


381 


savagely  proud.  It  was  a  noble  determination  in  him  that 
lie  would  depend  upon  himself  alone  ;  but  he  would  not 
only  accept  no  obligation,  but  he  resented  the  offer  of  help 
to  himself  or  to  anyone  belonging  to  him  as  if  it  had  been 
an  insult.  He  never  wholly  pardoned  Jeffrey  for  having 
made  his  brother's  fortune.  His  temper  had  been  ungov¬ 
ernable  from  his  childhood ;  he  had  the  irritability  of  a 
dyspeptic  man  of  genius  ;  and  when  the  Devil,  as  he  called 
it,  had  possession  of  him,  those  whose  comfort  he  ought 
most  to  have  studied  were  the  most  exposed  to  the  storm  : 
he  who  preached  so  wisely  ‘  on  doing  the  duty  which  lay 
nearest  to  us,’  forgot  his  own  instructions,  and  made  no 
adequate  effort  to  cast  the  Devil  out.  Hay,  more :  there 
broke  upon  him  in  his  late  years,  like  a  flash  of  lightning 
from  heaven,  the  terrible  revelation  that  he  had  sacrificed 
his  wife’s  health  and  happiness  in  his  absorption  in  his 
work ;  that  he  had  been  oblivious  of  his  most  obvious  ob¬ 
ligations,  and  had  been  negligent,  inconsiderate,  and  self¬ 
ish.  The  fault  was  grave  and  the  remorse  agonising. 
Dor  many  years  after  she  had  left  him,  when  we  passed 
the  spot  in  our  walks  where  she  was  last  seen  alive,  he 
would  bare  his  grey  head  in  the  wind  and  rain — his  feat¬ 
ures  wrung  with  unavailing  sorrow.  Let  all  this  be  ac¬ 
knowledged  ;  and  let  those  who  know  themselves  to  be 
without  either  these  sins,  or  others  as  bad  as  these,  freely 
cast  stones  at  Carlyle. 

But  there  is  the  other  side-  of  the  account.  In  the 
weightier  matters  of  the  law  Carlyle’s  life  had  been  with¬ 
out  speck  or  flaw.  From  his  earliest  years,  in  the  home  at 
Ecclefechan,  at  school,  at  college,  in  every  incident  or  re¬ 
corded  aspect  of  him,  we  see  invariably  the  same  purity, 
the  same  innocence  of  heart,  and  uprightness  and  integrity 
of  action.  As  a  child,  as  a  boy,  as  a  man,  he  had  been 
true  in  word  and  honest  and  just  in  deed.  There  is  no 
trace,  not  the  slightest,  of  levity  or  folly.  He  sought  his 


382 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


friends  among  the  worthiest  of  his  fellow- students,  and  to 
those  friends  he  was  from  the  first  a  special  object  of  re¬ 
spect  and  admiration.  Iiis  letters,  even  in  early  youth, 
were  so  remarkable  that  they  were  preserved  as  treasures 
by  his  correspondents.  In  the  thousands  which  I  have 
read,  either  written  to  Carlyle  or  written  by  him,  I  have 
found  no  sentence  of  his  own  which  he  could  have  wished 
unwritten,  or,  through  all  those  trying  years  of  incipient 
manhood,  a  single  action  alluded  to  by  others  which  those 
most  jealous  of  his  memory  need  regret  to  read,  or  his  bi¬ 
ographer  need  desire  to  conceal.  "Which  of  us  would  not 
shiver  at  the  thought  if  his  own  life  were  to  be  exposed  to 
the  same  dreadful  ordeal,  and  his  own  letters,  or  the  letters 
of  others  written  about  him,  were  searched  through  for 
the  sins  of  liis  youth  ?  These,  it  may  be  said,  are  but 
negative  virtues.  But  his  positive  qualities  were  scarcely 
less  beautiful.  Howliere  is  a  man  known  better  than  in 
his  own  family.  Ho  disguise  is  possible  there ;  and  he 
whom  father  and  mother,  brother  and  sister  love,  we  may 
be  sure  has  deserved  to  be  loved. 

Among  the  many  remarkable  characteristics  of  the  Car- 
lyle  household,  whether  at  Mainliill  or  Scotsbrig,  was  the 
passionate  affection  which  existed  among  them  and  the 
special  love  which  they  all  felt  for‘Tomd  Well  might 
Jeffrey  say  that  Carlyle  would  not  have  known  poverty  if 
he  had  not  been  himself  a  giver.  Iiis  own  habits  were 
Spartan  in  their  simplicity,  and,  from  the  moment  when 
he  began  to  earn  his  small  salary  as  an  usher  at  Annan, 
the  savings  of  his  thrift  were  spent  in  presents  to  his  father 
and  mother  and  in  helping  to  educate  his  brother.  I  too 
can  bear  witness  that  the  same  generous  disposition  re¬ 
mained  with  him  to  the  end.  In  his  later  years  he  had 
an  abundant  income,  but  he  never  added  to  his  own  com¬ 
forts  or  luxuries.  His  name  was  not  seen  on  charity  lists, 
but  he  gave  away  every  year  perhaps  half  what  he  re- 


Lights  and  /Shadoivs . 


383 


ceivecl.  I  was  myself  in  some  instances  employed  by  him 
to  examine  into  the  circumstances  of  persons  who  had  ap¬ 
plied  to  him  for  help.  The  stern  censor  was  in  these  in¬ 
stances  the  kindest  of  Samaritans.  It  was  enough  if  a 
man  or  woman  was  miserable.  He  did  not  look  too  curi¬ 
ously  into  the  causes  of  it.  I  was  astonished  at  the  pro¬ 
fuseness  with  which  he  often  gave  to  persons  little  worthy 
of  his  liberality. 

JTor  was  there  even  in  those  more  trying  cases  where 
men  were  prospering  beyond  their  merits  any  malice  or 
permanent  ill-will.  He  was  constitutionally  atrabilious  and 
scornful :  but  the  bitterness  with  which  he  would  speak 
of  such  persons  was  on  the  surface  merely.  4  Poor  devil,’ 
he  would  say  of  some  successful  political  Philistine,  4  af¬ 
ter  all,  if  we  looked  into  the  history  of  him,  we  should 
find  how  it  all  came  about.’  He  was  always  sad:  often 
gloomy  in  the  extreme.  Men  of  genius  rarely  take  cheer¬ 
ful  views  of  life.  They  see  too  clearly.  Dante  and  Isaiah 
were  not  probably  exhilarating  companions  ;  but  Carlyle, 
when  unpossessed  and  in  his  natural  humour,  was  gentle, 
forbearing,  and  generous. 

If  his  character  as  a  man  was  thus  nobly  upright,  so  he 
employed  his  time  and  his  talents  with  the  same  high  sense 
of  responsibility — not  to  make  himself  great,  or  honoured, 
or  admired,  but  as  a  trust  committed  to  him  for  his  Maker’s 
purposes.  4  What  can  you  say  of  Carlyle,’  said  Mr.  Huskin 
to  me,  4  but  that  he  was  born  in  the  clouds  and  struck  by 
the  lightning  ?  ’ — 4  struck  by  the  lightning  ’ — not  meant  for 
happiness,  but  for  other  ends ;  a  stern  fate  wdiich  never, 
theless  in  the  modern  world,  as  in  the  ancient,  is  the  por 
tion  dealt  out  to  some  individuals  on  whom  the  heavens 
have  been  pleased  to  set  their  mark.  Gifted  as  he  knew 
himself  to  be  with  unusual  abilities,  he  might  have  risen 
to  distinction  on  any  one  of  the  beaten  roads  of  life,  and 
have  won  rank  and  wealth  for  himself.  He  glanced  at 


384 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle . 


the  Church,  he  glanced  at  the  Bar,  but  there  was  some¬ 
thing  working  in  him  like  the  daiymv  of  Socrates,  which 
warned  him  off  with  an  imperious  admonition,  and  insisted 
on  being  obeyed.  Men  who  fancy  that  they  have  a  £  mis¬ 
sion  ’  in  this  world  are  usually  intoxicated  by  vanity,  and 
their  ambition  is  in  the  inverse  ratio  of  their  strength  to 
give  effect  to  it.  But  in  Carlyle  the  sense  of  having  a 
mission  was  the  growth  of  the  actual  presence  in  him  of 
the  necessary  powers.  Certain  associations,  certain  aspects 
of  human  life  and  duty,  had  forced  themselves  upon  him 
as  truths  of  immeasurable  consequence  which  the  world 
was  forgetting.  lie  was  a  rates,  a  seer.  lie  perceived 
things  which  others  did  not  see,  and  which  it  was  his  busi¬ 
ness  to  force  them  to  see.  He  regarded  himself  as  being 
charged  actually  and  really  with  a  message  which  he  was 
to  deliver  to  mankind,  and,  like  other  prophets,  he  was 
£  straitened ’  till  his  work  was  accomplished.  A  Goethe 
could  speak  in  verse,  and  charm  the  world  into  listening  to 
him  by  the  melody  of  his  voice.  The  deep  undertones  of 
Carlyle’s  music  could  not  modulate  themselves  under 
rhyme  and  metre.  For  the  new  matter  which  be  had  to 
utter  he  had  to  create  a  new  form  corresponding  to  it.  He 
had  no  pulpit  from  which  to  preach,  and  through  litera¬ 
ture  alone  had  he  any  access  to  the  world  which  he  was  to 
address.  Even  £  a  man  of  letters  ’  must  live  while  he 
writes,  and  Carlyle  had  imposed  conditions  upon  himself 
which  might  make  the  very  keeping  himself  alive  impossi¬ 
ble  ;  for  his  function  was  sacred  to  him,  and  he  had  laid 
down  as  a  fixed  rule  that  he  would  never  write  merely  to 
please,  never  for  money,  that  he  would  never  write  any¬ 
thing  save  when  especially  moved  to  write  by  an  impulse 
from  within  ;  above  all,  never  to  set  down  a  sentence  which 
he  did  not  in  his  heart  believe  to  be  true,  and  to  spare  no 
labour  till  his  work  to  the  last  fibre  was  as  good  as  he 
could  possibly  make  it. 


385 


Writing  of  the  French  Revolution. 

These  were  rare  qualities  in  a  modern  writer  whose 
bread  depended  on  his  pen,  and  such  as  might  well  com¬ 
pensate  for  worse  faults  than  spleen  and  hasty  temper, 
lie  had  not  starved,  but  he  had  come  within  measurable 
distance  of  starvation.  Nature  is  a  sharp  schoolmistress, 
and  when  she  is  training  a  man  of  genius  for  a  great  moral 
purpose,  she  takes  care  by  ‘  the  constitution  of  things  ’  that 
he  shall  not  escape  discipline.  More  than  once  better 
hopes  had  appeared  to  be  dawning.  Bnj^  the  sky  had 
again  clouded,  and  at  the  time  of  the  removal  to  London 
the  prospect  was  all  but  hopeless.  No  man  is  bound  to 
fight  for  ever  against  proved  impossibilities.  The  ‘  French 
Revolution  ’  was  to  be  the  last  effort.  If  this  failed  Car¬ 
lyle  had  resolved  to  give  up  the  game,  abandon  literature, 
buy  spade  and  rifle  and  make  for  the  backwoods  of  Amer¬ 
ica.  4  You  are  not  fit  for  that  either,  my  fine  fellow,’  he 
had  sorrowfully  to  say  to  himself.  Still  he  meant  to  try. 
America  might  prove  a  kinder  friend  to  him  than  England 
had  been,  in  some  form  or  other.  Worse  it  could  not 
prove. 

For  two  years  the  writing  of  that  book  occupied  him. 
The  materials  grew  on  his  hands,  and  the  first  volume,  for 
the  cause  mentioned  in  the  ‘  Reminiscences,’  had  to  be 
written  a  second  time.  All  the  mornings  he  was  at  his 
desk  ;  in  the  afternoons  he  took  his  solitary  walks  in  Hyde 
Park,  seeing  the  brilliant  equipages  and  the  knights  and 
dames  of  fashion  prancing  gaily  along  the  Row.  lie  did 
not  envy  them.  He  would  not  have  changed  existences 
with  the  brightest  of  these  fortune’s  favourites  if  the 
wealth  of  England  had  been  poured  into  the  scale.  But 
he  did  think  that  his  own  lot  was  hard,  so  willing  was  he 
to  do  anything  for  an  honest  living,  yet  with  every  door 
closed  against  him.  ‘  Not  one  of  you,’  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  looked  at  them,  c  could  do  what  I  am  doing,  and  it 
concerns  you  too,  if  you  did  but  know  it.’ 

Vol.  II.— 25 


386 


Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


They  did  not  know  it  and  they  have  not  known  it. 
Fifty  years  have  passed  since  Carlyle  was  writing  the 
4  French  Revolution.’  The  children  of  fashion  still  canter 
under  the  elms  of  the  Park,  as  their  fathers  and  mothers 
were  cantering  then,  and  no  sounds  of  danger  have  yet 
been  audible  to  flutter  the  Mayfair  dove-cotes.  4  They  call 
me  a  great  man  now,’  Carlyle  said  to  me  a  few  days  before 
he  died,  4  but  not  one  believes  what  I  have  told  them.’ 
But  if  they  did  not  believe  the  prophet,  they  could  wor¬ 
ship  the  new  star  which  was  about  to  rise.  The  Annan- 
dale  peasant  boy  was  to  be  the  wonder  of  the  London 
world.  He  had  wrought  himself  into  a  personality  which 
all  were  to  be  compelled  to  admire,  and  in  whom  a  few 
recognised,  like  Goethe,  the  advent  of  a  new  moral  force 
the  effects  of  which  it  was  impossible  to  predict. 


INDEX 


ADVOCATES’  LIBRARY,  the, 
Carlyle  and,  ii.  263,  268 
Agnosticism,  Carlyle  on,  ii.  175 
Agriculture,  English  and  Scotch,  Car¬ 
lyle  on,  i.  196 

Aitken,  James,  i.  263;  marries  Jean 
Carlyle,  ii.  302;  described  by  Car¬ 
lyle  302;  his  talent  for  picture-paint¬ 
ing,  30  s 

Alison,  Rev.  A. ,  i.  302  ;  his  essay  ‘  On 
Taste,’  804 

Allen,  Mr.,  of  York,  i.  209 
Althorp,  Lord,  ii.  140 
Andrew’s,  St.,  professorship  at,  i. 
340 ;  Carlyle  unsuccessful  in  ob¬ 
taining,  344 

Annan,  Carlyle  at  school  at,  i.  11; 
his  tutorship  at,  27  ;  Irving  at,  72  ; 
Carlyle’s  friends  in,  ii.  305 
Annan,  river,  i.  1 

Annandale,  i.  1,  28 ;  a  round  of  visits 
in,  ii.  224 

‘Annual  Register,’  a  literary,  Carlyle 
projects,  i.  307 

Apocrypha  controversy,  the,  i.  349 
Aristocracy,  a  true,  wanted,  ii.  74 
Aristotle,  quoted,  i.  302 
Art.  in  the  Greek  sense,  ii.  169 
Astronomy,  professorship  of,  in  Edin¬ 
burgh,  ii.  314 ;  Carlyle’s  failure  to 
obtain  this  post,  315 ;  Carlyle’s 
knowledge  of  theoretical,  316  ;  his 
inexperience  with  instruments  and 
in  observing,  320 

‘Athenaeum,’  the,  Carlyle’s  estimate 
of,  ii.  186 

Austin,  Mrs.  ii.  1 52  ;  Carlyle  visits, 
153,  181  ;  C.  Buller’s  estimate  of, 
190;  a  Radical  and  absolutist,  260 ; 
characterised,  347,  358 
Authors,  on  remuneration  of,ii.  229,230 


BAD  AMS,  Mr.,  Carlyle’s  first  meet¬ 
ing  with,  i.  184 ;  invites  Carlyle 
to  Birmingham,  185 ;  treats  him 
medically,  189 ;  Carlyle’s  portrait 


of,  189;  ii.  136;  his  intemperate 
habits,  142  ;  his  death,  142  note 
Barjarg,  library  at,  placed  at  Carlyle’s 
service,  ii.  299 ;  Carlyle  at,  312,  327 
Barnet,  Bessy,  ii.  350  351  and  note. 

355,  369 

Barry  Cornwall  (Procter),  i.  177.  See 
Procter 

Basket-maker,  the,  ii.  167 
Beattie,  Carlyle’s  opinion  of,  ii.  327 
Becker,  Dr.,  death  of,  ii.  199 
Bell,  Sir  Charles,  i.  89 
Bentham,  Jeremy,  his  significance, 
ii.  72  ;  in  his  dotage,  187 ;  his  death 
and  bequest  of  his  body,  241 
Bentinck,  The  Lords,  i.  216 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  ii.  78 
Biography,  the  only  history,  ii.  187 
Birmingham,  Carlyle’s  visit  to,  i.  187  ; 
picture  of,  187 

‘  Blackwood’s  Magazine,’  i.  60;  Irving 
and,  151 

Bonnymuir,  rising  on,  i.  58 
Booksellers,  Carlyle  on,  i.  241 ;  puf¬ 
fing  by,  ii.  167 

Bookselling,  slain  by  puffery,  ii. 

224 

‘Boots,’  the,  at  New  York,  ii.  289 
‘Boswell,’  Croker’s,  ii.  186 
Bowring,  John,  ii.  76,  127 ;  described 
by  Carlyle,  139 

Brewster,  Sir  David,  employs  Carlyle, 
i.  49;  his  ‘  Encyclopaedia,’  49,  72; 

74,  111,  307 ;  ii.  266 ;  the 

Astronomy  professorship  and,  320, 

321 

Bristol,  fatal  riots  at,  ii.  179 
Brougham,  Henry,  i.  836 ;  Carlyle 
recommended  to,  337 ;  unappre¬ 
ciative  of  Carlyle,  338  ;  Lord  Chan¬ 
cellor,  ii.  74  ;  his  character,  116 
Brown,  Dr.,  ii.  269 
Browne,  Sir  T.,  his  ‘Urn-Burial,’ i. 

302  ;  his  character,  303 
Byron,  Lord,  death  of,  i.  173 ;  its 
effect  on  Carlyle  and  Miss  Welsh,  *■ 
173,  304 ;  definition  of,  ii.  75 


3S8 


Index. 


Buller,  Arthur,  ii.  188 

Bailer,  Charles,  i.  114,  115;  Irving’s 
opinion  of,  115 ;  Carlyle’s  opinion 
of,  133 ;  his  regret  at  parting  with 
Carlyle,  183,  347 ;  letter  to  Carlyle 
from,  ii.  27 ;  advocates  Utilita¬ 
rianism,  28,  130 ;  an  advanced 
Radical,  174  ;  his  agnosticism,  174, 
175;  Carlyle’s  affection  for,  175; 
his  early  death,  175 ;  his  appear¬ 
ance,  177  ;  his  poor  opinion  of  ma¬ 
gazine  writers.  189,  191  ;  his  letter 
to  Carlyle,  190 ;  opinion  of  Mrs. 
Austin,  190  ;  his  praise  of  Mill,  190, 
191 ;  his  legal  studies,  191  ;  invita¬ 
tion  to  stand  for  Liskeard,  191  ; 
stands  for  Liskeard,  225  ;  praised 
by  Carlyle,  348,  349  ;  his  ‘  Radical 
meeting,’  Carlyle’s  description  of, 
371 

Buller,  Mr.,  father  of  Charles  Buller, 
i.  114  ;  his  character,  134  ;  friend¬ 
ship  for  Carlyle,  134 ;  removes  to 
Kinnaird  House,  144 ;  leaves  Kin- 
naird,  108 

Buller,  Mrs.,  i.  114;  consults  Irving 
about  her  sons’  education,  115 ; 
engages  Carlyle  as  their  tutor,  115  ; 
her  career  and  character,  134 ; 
verses  by  John  Leyden  on,  134  note ; 
interested  in  Carlyle,  134 ;  her 
patience  with  him.  156 ;  her  house¬ 
hold  management,  163 ;  compared 
with  her  sister,  Mrs.  Strachey, 
189 

Bulwer  Lytton,  Sir  E.,  ii.  186 ;  his 
‘  England  and  the  English,  ’  Car¬ 
lyle’s  opinion  of,  327 

Burns.  Robert,  ii.  23  ;  Lockhart’s  Life 
of,  23  ;  Carlyle’s  essay  on,  25,  29 ; 
Goethe  translates  essay  on,  31 ; 
altercation  with  Jeffrey  about  essay 
on,  31,  34 ;  on  noble-mindedness  in 
blackguards,  185  ;  a  Burns’  dinner, 
212 

Burton,  quoted,  i.  303 


CABINET  ENCYCLOPAEDIA,’ 
ii.  199 

Cagliostro,  ii.  265;  Carlyle  studies 
history  of,  266  ;  article  on,  268,  274, 
275,  277 

Cameronians,  i.  1 

Campbell,  Thomas,  Carlyle’s  intro¬ 
duction  to,  i.  177;  his  wife,  178  ;  es¬ 
timate  of,  213,  238 
Canning,  death  of,  i.  333 
Caricatures  of  Scotch  ministers,  i.  349 


Carlyle,  James  (father  of  Thomas  Car¬ 
lyle),  i.  3;  his  early  hardships,  3; 
apprenticed,  5 ;  anecdote  of,  6 ; 
sets  up  in  business,  6 ;  marries  his 
first  wife,  7 ;  birth  of  a  son,  and 
death  of  his  wife,  7 ;  marries  Mar¬ 
garet  Aitken,  7  ;  his  character,  15  ; 
gives  up  business  and  takes  farm 
at  Mainhill,  27  ;  letter  to  his  son 
Thomas,  142  ;  his  reception  of  Miss 
Welsh,  253  ;  removes  to  Scotsbrig, 
269,  270 ;  serious  illness,  ii.  193 ; 
his  last  letter  to  his  son  Thomas, 
193  ;  change  of  manner,  193 ;  his 
last  letter  from  T.  Carlyle,  194 ; 
death  of,  199  ;  his  personal  quali¬ 
ties,  200  ;  memoir  of,  in  ‘  Reminis¬ 
cences,’  201 ;  his  will,  219 
Carlyle,  Jane  Welsh  (wife  of  Thomas 
Carlyle),  as  a  hostess,  i.  307,  311; 
her  letters  to  Carlyle’s  mother,  308, 
311  ;  her  household  management, 
315 ;  her  aversion  to  Craigenput- 
tock,  315  ;  introduction  to  Jeffrey, 
321 ;  present  from  Goethe,  325, 
331 ;  her  attempts  at  bread-making, 
ii.  23  note ;  laborious  household 
duties,  38 ;  learns  Spanish,  39 ; 
complains  of  loneliness,  49 ;  severe 
illness,  55 ;  Jeffrey’s  anxiety  re¬ 
specting,  81,  101  ;  her  present  to 
Goethe,  82 ;  lines  from  him,  86 ; 
correspondence  with  Lord  Jeffrey, 
129 ;  her  judgment  on  1  Sartor  Re- 
sartus,’  130  ;  a  former  suitor,  141 ; 
a  pecuniary  offer  from  Mrs.  Mon¬ 
tagu  declined,  142  ;  prepares  to  join 
Carlyle  in  London,  160  ;  voyage  to 
Liverpool,  164  note  ;  arrival  in  Lon¬ 
don,  165  ;  in  London  society,  165 ; 
at  Enfield,  180  ;  on  London  climate, 
180 ;  on  London  people,  181 ;  her 
estimate  of  Mrs.  Montagu  and 
Mrs.  Austin,  181  ;  returns  to  Scot¬ 
land,  214 ;  her  dreary  life  and 
delicate  health  on  the  moors,  214  ; 
her  desire  for  intellectual  com¬ 
panionship  disappointed,  215 ;  her 
correspondence  with  Jeffrey,  216, 
232  ;  her  trials,  and  stoicism,  232 ; 
her  friendship  for  Miss  Miles,  232  ; 
corresponds  with,  233 ;  on  fine 
ladies,  233 ;  on  their  home  life, 
234;  her  verses  ’To  a  Swallow,’ 
235 ;  goes  to  Templand,  255  ; 
death  of  her  grandfather,  Mr. 
Welsh,  of  Templand,  256;  letter 
from  Mrs.  Austin,  259;  continued 
ill-health,  280;  her  letter  to  Miss 


Index, 


389 


Miles,  284;  studies  Italian,  285;  to 
Moffat  with  her  mother,  294,  297 ; 
letter  to,  from  H.  Inglis,  quoted, 
299  note  ;  her  hard  time  on  the 
moors,  337 ;  her  verses  in  answer 
to  Carlyle’s  4  Cui  Bono  ?  ’  339 ;  her 
kindness  to  Old'  Esther,  341 ;  her 
arrival  in  London,  350  ;  approves  of 
house  at  Chelsea,  350 ;  her  maid, 
Bessy  Barnet,  350,  351  ;  and  note , 
355  ;  Mrs.  Montagu  and,  373  ;  Mrs. 
Hunt  and,  373  ;  accident  to,  378 
Carlyle,  Jean  (sister  of  T.  Carlyle),  her 
character,  ii.  303 ;  marries  James 
Aitken,  303  ;  her  household,  308 
Carlyle,  John  Aitken  (brother  of 
Thomas  Carlyle),  i.  37,  62;  his 
studies,  112;  resides  with  T.  Car¬ 
lyle  in  Moray  Street,  136 ;  his  so¬ 
briquet  of  4  Lord  Moon,’  170,  308  ; 
note ;  at  Comely  Bank,  310 ;  sent  to 
Germany  by  his  brother,  338,  339  ; 
at  Munich,  ii.,  21;  returns  from 
Germany,  48 ;  goes  to  London,  but 
fails  to  obtain  employment,  50 ; 
contemplates  a  literary  life,  92 ; 
advice  from  his  brother,  92 ;  with 
Irving  in  London,  98 ;  hankers 
after  magazine  writing,  117 ;  cau¬ 
tioned  against  it  by  his  brother,  117; 
receives  pecuniary  help  from  Jeffrey, 
121  ;  appointed  travelling  physician 
to  Countess  of  Clare,  146;  his  salary, 
146 ;  accompanies  Lady  Clare  to 
Italy,  165  ;  at  Rome,  196 ;  his  bro¬ 
ther’s  counsel,  196,  209  ;  at  Naples, 
221 ;  his  prosperous  circumstances, 
222  ;  pays  off  his  debts  to  Jeffrey  and 
to  his  brother,  226,  240  note\  at  Flo¬ 
rence,  276  ;  returns  to  Scotland,  and 
visits  T.  Carlyle  at  Craigenputtock, 
281 ;  returns  with  Lady  Clare  to 
Italy,  285  ;  his  prosperity  there,  367; 
a  remittance  to  his  mother,  367 
Carlyle,  John,  of  Cockermouth  (half- 
brother  of  T.  Carlyle),  ii.,  204;  at 
his  father’s  funeral,  208 
Carlyle,  Margaret  (mother  of  Thomas 
Carlyle),  her  marriage,  i.  7 ;  first 
letter  to  her  son,  38 ;  severe  mental 
illness,  39 ;  alarm  at  Carlyle’s 
opinions,  50  ;  her  estimate  of  *  Wil¬ 
helm  Meister,’  180  ;  Carlyle’s  affec¬ 
tion  for,  188 ;  her  visit  to  him  at 
Comely  Bank,  345 ;  her  anxious 
cares  for  her  children,  ii.  197  ;  death 
of  her  husband,  200;  provided  for 
by  his  will,  219 ;  her  range  of  read¬ 
ing  257,  329 ;  her  last  visit  to  1 


Craigenputtock,  343;  her  fortitude 
on  parting  with  her  son,  343 
Carlyle, Margaret  (sister  of  T.  Carlyle), 
her  character,  ii.  49  ;  shows  symp¬ 
toms  of  consumption,  49;  visits 
Craigenputtock,  50 ;  her  last  illness 
and  death,  81-91 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  ancestors  of,  i.  2 ; 
birth  of,  at  Ecclefechan,  2 ;  his 
father  and  grandfather,  3 ;  sent  to 
village  school,  7 ;  his  boyhood,  9 ; 
character  of  his  parents,  9;  his 
progress  in  4  figures  ’  and  Latin, 
11  ;  at  Annan  grammar  school,  11 ; 
school  recollections,  13,  14 ;  sees 
Irving  for  first  time,  14 ;  his  awe 
of  his  father,  16  ;  journey  to  Edin¬ 
burgh,  18 ;  first  impressions  of 
Edinburgh,  19,  20 ;  enters  the  Uni¬ 
versity,  20 ;  his  course  of  study, 
20 ;  his  progress,  21  ;  failure  in 

{irize-taking,  21 ;  influence  on  fel- 
ow-students,  24  ;  letters  from  — 
Hill  (‘Peter  Pindar’),  24,  26;  seeks 
pupils,  27  ;  elected  as  mathematical 
tutor  at  Annan,  27 ;  uncongenial 
life  there,  27  ;  his  new  home  at 
Mainhill,  28  ;  correspondence  with 
T.  Murray,  29 ;  first  meeting  with 
Irving,  32  ;  pursues  Divinity  course, 
32  ;  his  first  sermon,  32  ;  appointed 
to  school  at  Kirkcaldy,  33  ;  friend¬ 
ship  with  Irving  there,  34;  cor¬ 
respondence  with  members  of  his 
family,  35,  38  ;  first  extant  letter 
from  his  father,  35 ;  his  dislike  of 
teaching,  39;  his  friends  at  Kirk¬ 
caldy,  39 ;  friendship  with  Miss 
Gordon,  41  ;  abandons  the  idea  of 
entering  the  ministry,  43 ;  dis¬ 
pleases  Kirkcaldy  burghers,  43 ; 
resignation  of  mastership,  45;  re¬ 
moves  to  Edinburgh,  45 ;  studies 
law,  46 ;  maternal  counsels,  47 ; 
first  attack  of  dyspepsia,  47  ;  takes 
pupils,  49;  religious  doubts  and 
mental  struggles,  51 ;  attends 
Hume’s  lectures,  51 ;  disgust  with 
study  of  law,  51 ;  religious  doubts, 
53 ;  home  to  Mainhill.  54 ;  distress 
of  his  parents,  55 ;  letter  from 
Irving,  55 ;  returns  to  Edinburgh,  58 ; 
advice  from  Irving,  60,  64,  73 ; 
severe  dyspepsia,  62;  visit  to  Ir¬ 
ving  at  Glasgow,  67 ;  return  to 
Ecclefechan,  70 ;  commences  study 
of  German  literature,  72 ;  encour¬ 
agement  from  Sir  D.  Brewster  and 
1  Tait,  74  ;  visit  to  Irving  at  Glasgow, 


390 


Index. 


78 ;  offers  to  translate  Schiller  for 
booksellers,  78 ;  offer  from  Captain 
Basil  Hall,  78 ;  end  of  gloomy 
period,  79 ;  consolatory  letters  from 
Irving,  80;  his  ‘new  birth,’ 
81 ;  visit  to  Haddington  and  intro¬ 
duction  to  Miss  Welsh,  104;  cor¬ 
responds  with  her,  104 ;  range  of 
his  studies,  105  ;  reads  Schiller  and 
Goethe,  105 ;  adopts  literature  as 
a  profession,  1 05 ;  his  admiration 
of  Schiller’s  character  and  writ¬ 
ings,  105;  studies  Goethe’s  works, 
106;  his  opinion  of  ‘Wilhelm 
Meister,’  107 ;  letters  from  Irving 
respecting  Miss  Welsh’s  German 
studies,  108,  109 ;  summer  at  Main- 
hill,  110  ;  writes  for  Brewster,  111  ; 
returns  to  Edinburgh,  111  ;  care  for 
his  brother  John,  112  ;  accepts  tutor¬ 
ship  in  Buller  family,  115  ;  at  work 
with  his  pupils,  117 ;  their  charac¬ 
ters,  118;  literary  projects,  118, 
120 ;  literary  correspondence  with 
Miss  Welsh,  121  ;  introduction  to 
proprietor  of  4  London  Magazine,’ 
129 ;  his  contributions  accepted, 
129 ;  happy  with  his  pupils,  130, 
133 ;  finishes  translation  of  Legen¬ 
dre,  130 ;  hopes  and  fears,  131  ; 
sleeplessness,  132  ;  a  dog  story,  132  ; 
makes  acquaintance  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Buller,  133 ;  his  opinion  of 
them,  135 ;  considerately  treated 
by  them,  135;  visits  Mainhill, 
136  ;  4  midnight  smokes  ’  with  his 
mother,  136 ;  her  distress  about  his 
spiritual  state,  136  ;  Carlyle’s  letter 
thereon,  136;  his  mode  of  life  at 
the  Buffers’,  137;  twenty-seventh 
birthday,  138 ;  ill-success  in  poeti¬ 
cal  composition,  138 ;  verses  on 
Battle  of  Morgarten,  138 ;  verses  on 
Miss  Welsh,  139 ;  begins  Life  of 
Schiller,  141 ;  his  impressions  of 
MacCulloch,  of  the  4  Scotsman,’ 
141  ;  his  sister  Jane,  142  ;  begins 
translation  of  ‘Wilhelm  Meister,’ 
144 ;  joins  the  Buffers  at  Kin- 
naird  House — his  life  there,  145 ; 
relations  with  Miss  Welsh,  145 ; 
effects  of  dyspepsia,  147 ;  trans¬ 
lation  of  ‘Meister,’  148;  life  at 
Kinnaird,  148  ;  first  sight  of  people 
of  fashion — his  opinion  of  them, 
150 ;  on  Irving’s  book  on  Last 
Judgment,  152 ;  contrasts  his  lot 
with  Irving’s,  152 ;  renewed  rest¬ 
lessness,  154,  156  ;  Life  of  Schiller, 


157 ;  on  character  of  Schiller,  157 ; 
on  Kant’s  philosophy,  158 ;  the 
motto  4  Terar  dum  prosim,’  159 ; 
despondency,  160;  effects  of  mer¬ 
cury,  162 ;  farewell  to  old  year, 
162 ;  sufferings  from  bad  medical 
treatment,  162,  164 ;  uncertain 

prospects,  165 ;  invitation  from 
Irving,  165  ;  on  value  of  a  profes¬ 
sion,  advice  to  his  brother  John, 
166  ;  Irving’s  expectations  for  him, 
167 ;  return  to  Edinburgh,  168 ; 
marriage  prospects,  169  ;  remunera¬ 
tion  for  ‘Wilhelm  Meister,’  170; 
estimate  of  that  work,  171 ;  life 
and  work  at  Mainhill,  172  ;  on  death 
of  Lord  Byron,  173 ;  range  of  his 
reading,  173 ;  sails  from  Leith, 
175  ;  account  of  voyage,  175 ;  first 
impression  of  London  and  its  so¬ 
ciety,  176 ;  Mrs.  Strachey,  177 ; 
Miss  Kirkpatrick,  177  ;  Mrs.  Mon¬ 
tagu,  177 ;  his  opinions  of  Procter 
(Barry  Cornwall),  Allan  Cunning¬ 
ham,  and  T.  Campbell,  177;  portrait 
of  Coleridge,  179  ;  sends  4  Wilhelm 
Meister  ’  to  Mainhill,  its  reception 
there,  180  ;  removes  to  Kew  Green, 
180  ;  leaves  the  Buffers  and  returns 
to  London,  182  ;  meets  Mr.  Badams, 
184 ;  visits  him  at  Birmingham, 
187  ;  his  impressions  of  Birming¬ 
ham,  187 ;  medically  treated  by 
Mr.  Badams,  189 ;  invitation  to 
Dover  from  the  Strachey’s,  189 ; 
his  friendship  for  Mrs.  Strachey, 
189;  leaves  Birmingham,  191;  at 
Stratford-on-Avon,  191  ;  at  Oxford, 
192  ;  offers  to  board  with  Irving  at 
Pentonville,  193  ;  visits  Dover,  194  ; 
the  party  at  Dover,  195;  on  agri¬ 
culture  and  peasantry  in  Kent,  196  ; 
humorous  sketches  of  Irving,  197, 
208 ;  visit  to  Paris  decided  on, 
198  ;  route  taken,  198  ;  impressions 
of  198,  200 ;  visits  Legendre,  198, 
202 ;  at  the  Morgue,  199 ;  sketch 
of  Cuvier  and  his  lecture,  202  ;  at 
the  Palais  Royal,  201  ;  presented  to 
Dupin  and  other  French  savants, 
202  ;  excitement  at  Mainhill  about 
French  journey,  202;  returns  to 
London,  204 ;  prospects  as  a  man  of 
letters,  205 ;  his  bad  opinion  of  his 
Life  of  Schiller,  206  ;  Goethe’s  judg¬ 
ment  of  it,  206 ;  invitation  from 
Allen,  of  York,  to  reside  with  him  at 
Epping  Forest,  209 ;  London  ex¬ 
periences,  209-210  ;  letters  to  Miss 


Index . 


391 


Welsh,  211-215 ;  views  for  the 
future,  212  ;  his  antipathy  to  Lon¬ 
don  men  of  letters,  214  ;  first  letter 
from  Goethe,  215  ;  purposes  farm¬ 
ing  at  Craigenputtock,  220 ;  but 
dissuaded  by  Miss  Welsh,  225  ;  cor¬ 
respondence  with  her,  220-237 ; 
impatience  with  London,  238 ; 
‘seven  years  of  pain,’  240;  on 
booksellers,  .  241 ;  ‘  German  Ro¬ 

mance  ’  projected,  241 ;  returns  to 
Annandale,  242  ;  removes  to  Hod- 
dam  Hill,  243  ;  life  there,  244,  246  ; 
work  at  ‘  German  Romance,’  245  ; 
letters  from  Mrs.  Montagu,  248 ; 
Miss  Welsh’s  confession,  250 ;  her 
visit  to  Hoddam,  251  ;  coterie 
speech  in  Carlyle  family,  259  ;  as  a 
horseman,  261  note  ;  his  sister  Jean, 
261 ;  poem  on  ‘  My  own  four  walls,’ 
265 ;  visits  Irving  at  Annan,  267 ; 
leaves  Hoddam  Hill,  269 ;  removes 
to  Scotsbrig,  269,  271  ;  spiritual 
deliverance,  269  ;  time  of  marriage 
fixed,  271 ;  plans  for  settlement, 
274;  ‘nauseous  intruders,’  276; 
proposes  settling  at  Scotsbrig,  279  ; 
the  marriage  treaty,  277-2S8 ; 
Wightman  the  hedger,  287 ;  pre¬ 
parations  for  marriage,  288,  292; 
tries  to  read  Kant’s  ‘  Kritik,’  295  ; 
married  in  Templand  church,  297  ; 
arrival  at  Comely  Bank,  298 ;  be¬ 
ginning  of  married  life,  301  ;  de¬ 
spondency,  302  ;  commences  a  novel, 
302,  310 ;  wide  course  of  reading, 
302 ;  criticism  of  various  Eliza¬ 
bethan  writers,  303  ;  his  opinion  of 
Scott  and  Byron,  304 ;  on  Herder’s 
‘Ideen,’  and  Alison’s  Essay  on 
Taste,  304 ;  on  political  economy, 
305  ;  economic  prospects,  306  ;  life 
and  society  at  Comely  Bank,  308 ; 
projects  a  literary  ‘Annual  Register,’ 
307  ;  letters  home,  309-311 ;  receives 
introduction  to  Jeffrey,  311 ;  his 
conversational  powers,  313 ;  on  hu¬ 
mour,  313  ;  absence  of  malice,  314  ; 
his  novel  a  failure,  315 ;  resolves 
on  settling  at  Craigenputtock,  316; 
prospects  brighten,  320 ;  introduc¬ 
tion  to  Jeffrey,  320;  Jeffrey’s  re¬ 
cognition  of  his  qualities,  320  ;  con¬ 
tributes  to  ‘Edinburgh  Review,’ 
321,  322  ;  his  essay  on  Richter,  323  ; 
his  style,  when  formed,  323  ;  visits 
John  Wilson  (Christopher  North), 
324 ;  letter  and  present  from  Goe¬ 
the,  325 ;  article  on  German  lite¬ 


rature,  Goethe’s  inquiry  respecting, 
332 ;  with  Jeffrey  at  Craigcrook, 
332 ;  visit  to  Dumfriesshire,  334  ; 
letter  from  Irving,  335 ;  consults 
Jeffrey  about  professorship,  336 ; 
recommended  to  Lord  Brougham, 
337  ;  but  with  no  result,  338  ;  sends 
his  brother  to  Germany  at  own  cost, 
338 ;  his  estimate  of  De  Quincey, 
339 ;  hopes  of  professorship  at  St. 
Andrew’s,  340 ;  efforts  of  his  friends, 
340  ;  testimonials  from  Jeffrey, 
Goethe,  Irving,  and  Brewster,  340  ; 
from  Sir  J.  Leslie,  341 ;  fails  to 
obtain  professorship,  343  ;'  visit 
from  his  mother,  344 ;  journey  of 
inspection  to  Craigenputtock,  350  ; 
visit  from  his  sister  Jean,  350 ;  Goe¬ 
the’s  insight  into  his  temperament, 
352 ;  presents  from  Goethe,  352 ; 
leaves  Comely  Bank,  and  goes  to 
live  at  Craigenputtock,  352 ;  Goe¬ 
the  on  his  genius,  ii.  1 ;  maturity 
of  his  powers,  I ;  his  religion,  Cal¬ 
vinism  without  theology,  1 ;  on 
miracles,  2;  ‘gospel  of  force.’  6; 
on  ‘spiritual  optics,’  7  ;  on  intoler¬ 
ance,  7 ;  on  the  character  of  the 
Jews,  11 ;  letter  to  George  A. 
Duncan  on  Prayer,  16  ;  removes  to 
Craigenputtock,  20  ;  early  days 
there,  21 ;  on  Irving’s  preaching, 
23 ;  his  essay  on  Burns,  25 ;  Jef¬ 
frey’s  friendliness  and  esteem,  27 ; 
letter  from  Charles  Buller,  27 ;  edi¬ 
torial  dispute  with  Jeffrey,  31 ;  Goe¬ 
the  and  essay  on  Burns,  31 ;  visit 
from  the  Jeffreys  at  Craigenput¬ 
tock,  33  ;  visit  from  his  father,  37  ; 
his  two  horses,  37 ;  anecdote  of 
pony  and  sow,  37  note ;  winter  life, 

39  ;  learns  Spanish,  39  ;  visit  from 
H.  Tnglis,  40;  deaths  of  neighbours, 

40  ;  essay  on  Voltaire,  43  ;  on  func¬ 
tions  of  revolution,  44 ;  his  ‘  Remis 
niscences  of  Lord  Jeffrey,’  46  ;  sug¬ 
gested  editorship  of  ‘  Edinburgh 
Review,’  47  ;  his  ‘  Signs  of  the 
Times,’  48;  his  sister  Margaret,  her 
character,  49 ;  her  illness,  49  ;  her 
visit  to  Craigenputtock,  50;  re¬ 
fuses  offered  annuity  from  Jeffrey, 
52,  66;  encouraging  letter  to  John 
Carlyle,  53 ;  severe  illness  of  his 
wife,  55  ;  his  father’s  ill-health,  55  ; 
tragical  death  of  a  neighbour,  56 ; 
letter  of  ‘  Vox  ’  in  ‘  Dumfries  Cou¬ 
rier,’  56  ;  extracts  from  journal,  59  ; 
on  politics,  institutions,  and  the  un- 


392 


Index. 


derstanding,  62 ;  on  waste  lands, 
and  on  quacks,  63 ;  on  political 
philosophy,  64;  on  Utilitarianism, 
64 ;  on  religion,  and  quarrels,  65  ;• 
doubts  as  to  his  love  of  poetry,  66  ; 
his  1  History  of  German  Literature,’ 
67 ;  on  Scott’s  ‘  History  of  Scot¬ 
land,’  71 ;  on  Silence,  73 ;  first 
sketch  of  ‘  Sartor  Resartus,’  74 ; 
financial  straits,  76 ;  on  relation  of 
moral  to  poetic  genius,  79 ;  his 
4  Teufelsdrockh  ’  refused  by  editors, 
80 ;  contemplates  a  4  Life  of  Lu¬ 
ther,’  80 ;  intended  visit  to  Ger¬ 
many  not  carried  out,  80  ;  attempt 
at  book  on  German  Literature,  81  ; 
letter  from  Goethe,  with  present, 
83  ;  illness  and  death  of  his  sister 
Margaret,  87 ;  coolness  of  editors 
and  publishers,  92 ;  finishes  His¬ 
tory  of  German  Literature,  97 ; 
his  brother  Alick  leaves  him,  97, 
99 ;  money  help  to  his  brothers, 
99 ;  pecuniary  needs,  99  ;  battle 
with  the  nettles,  99  note  ;  his 
Radicalism,  100 ;  second  visit  of 
the  Jeffreys,  101  ;  his  analysis  of 
Jeffrey’s  talent  and  character,  102  ; 
on  emigration,  112  ;  his  means  im¬ 
prove,  113;  literary  prospects,  113; 
resolves  to  visit  London,  116 ;  on 
character  of  Brougham,  116 ;  ad¬ 
vice  to  his  brother  against  maga¬ 
zine  writing,  117  ;  reviews  Taylor’s 
‘Survey  of  German  Poetry,’  122; 
death  of  his  horse,  ‘Larry,’  122; 
bad  prospects,  and  despondency, 
123 ;  consolation  from  Jeffrey,  124  ; 
the  progress  of  4  Sartor  Resartus,’ 
126 ;  its  completion,  129 ;  ac¬ 
cepts  loan  from  Jeffrey,  130 ; 
his  visit  to  London,  130;  compared 
to  Parson  Adams,  130;  journey  to 
Liverpool,  132;  arrival  in  London, 
134;  villany  of  coach  agents,  134; 
visits  Jeffrey,  135  ;  sends  ‘Sartor’ 
to  John  Murray,  135  ;  offers  German 
Literature  to  Longmans,  136 ;  visit 
to  Mrs.  Strachey,  137 ;  encounter 
with  ‘little  Button,’  137  ;  visits 
Irving,  1 38  ;  his  description  of  God¬ 
win  and  Bowring,  138;  at  House 
of  Commons,  140  ;  impatience  with 
Murray,  141 ;  death  of  his  friend 
Badams,  142  ;  talk  with  Irving,  143  ; 
at  dinner  with  Henry  Drummond, 
143  ;  4  Sartor  ’  declined  by  Murray, 
and  offered  to  Longmans,  144 ;  his 
brother’s  appointment  as  physician, 


146;  his  contempt  for  ‘literary 
men,’  151;  ‘Sartor’  refused  by 
Colburn  and  Bentley,  154 ;  corre¬ 
spondence  with  Murray  respecting, 
156-158 ;  Murray  finally  declines 
it,  157 ;  -writes  paper  on  Charac¬ 
teristics,  159 ;  arrival  of  his  wife 
in  London,  165  ;  his  London  lodg¬ 
ings,  165 ;  his  harsh  estimate  of 
Lamb,  169 ;  his  fears  for  Irving, 
173,  179 ;  remonstrates  with  him, 
174 ;  visit  from  Irving,  177,  119  ; 
renews  intercourse  with  Buller 
family,  174 ;  his  great  liking  for 
Charles  Buller,  175 ;  on  agnostic 
doctrines,  175 ;  remarks  on  the 
cholera,  178,  183 ;  finishes  4  Cha¬ 
racteristics,’  185;  contributes  to 
the  4  Athenaeum,’  186  ;  evening 
with  Hayward,  186 ;  visits  Dr. 
Johnson’s  house,  187  ;  dinner  party 
at  Fraser’s,  188,  212 ;  letter  from 
C.  Buller,  190 ;  his  father’s  illness, 
and  last  letter,  193  ;  his  last  letter 
to  his  father,  193  ;  manner  of  com¬ 
municating  with  his  family,  194 
note ;  his  mode  of  life  in  London, 
195 ;  calls  on  Bulwer,  198 ;  his 
gratitude  to  Hayward,  199 ;  death 
of  his  father.  199 ;  his  memoir  of, 
201 ;  consolatory  letters  to  his 
mother,  201,  206 ;  his  half-brother 
John  of  Cockermouth,  204 ;  reve¬ 
rence  for  his  father’s  memory,  206 ; 
reflections  on  death,  209 ;  counsels 
to  his  brother  John,  210 ;  acknow¬ 
ledges  deep  indebtedness  to  German 
writers,  210 ;  results  of  the  London 
visit,  211 ;  brightening  prospects, 
211;  reviews  Croker’s  ‘Life  of 
Johnson,’  for  Fraser,  212  ;  his  scorn¬ 
ful  temper  with  editors,  212 ;  his 
attitude  toward  literary  London, 
212;  return  to  Scotland,  214;  stay 
at  Liverpool,  214 ;  his  self-ab- 
sorption,  214  ;  translates  Das  Mahr- 
chen,  215;  resumes  work  at  Craig- 
enputtock,  217;  homage  and  sym¬ 
pathy  from  Mill,  220 ;  a  round 
of  visits  in  Annandale,  223 ;  on 
names  of  streets,  227 ;  feels  want 
of  libraries  and  books,  227,  228 ; 
at  Templand,  228 ;  feeling  of  su¬ 
pernaturalism,  229 ;  life  on  the 
moor,  239 ;  details  of  work,  240 ; 
dissatisfied  with  his  Goethe  arti¬ 
cle,  242 ;  reads  Diderot’s  works, 
242,  243 ;  lets  the  Craigenputtock 
shooting,  242 ;  a  tour  into  Gallo- 


/ 


Index. 


393 


way,  244  ;  at  Dumfries  as  juryman, 
250 ;  repays  Jeffrey’s  loan,  250 ; 
finishes  Diderot  article,  251 ;  visit 
to  Annandale,  252  ;  thoughts  about 
Jeffrey,  254  ;  arrival  in  Edinburgh, 
262 ;  studies  French  Revolution 
literature,  263 ;  his  criticism  of 
Thiers’  History,  263  note  ;  assisted 
by  Mill,  263 ;  Edinburgh  society 
less  congenial  than  that  of  London, 
264;  unfortunate  as  to  lodgings, 
265 ;  his  Edinburgh  friends,  265, 
271 ;  his  discontent  with  Edinburgh, 
271,  279;  his  alternations  of  belief 
and  disbelief,  279,  286  ;  thoughts  of 
London  as  a  dwelling-place,  280; 
returns  to  the  moors,  280;  ‘Sartor 
Resartus  ’  in  print,  281 ;  return  of 
John  Carlyle  from  Italy,  his  visit 
to  Craigenputtock,  281 ;  self-ex¬ 
amination,  282 ;  self-accusation  of 
vanity,  282  ;  the  mouse  in  the  por¬ 
ridge,  283;  visit  from  Emerson, 
287  ;  close  correspondence  with  Mill, 
291  ;  its  nature,  291  ;  his  religious 
views,  292 ;  unfavourable  literary 
prospects,  293,  302 ;  verses  on  Cri- 
chope  Linn,  295  ;  spiritual  restless¬ 
ness,  298  ;  neglected  by  editors,  29S  ; 
note ;  uses  library  at  Barjarg,  299; 
quality  of  his  verse,  298  note ; 
marriage  of  his  sister  Jean, 
303  ;  his  anxiety  for  his  mother, 
304 ;  a  tour  in  Annandale,  305 ; 
assists  an  old  friend,  306 ;  his 
thirty-eighth  birthday,  312 ;  bad 
prospects,  314 ;  his  mathematical 
ability,  315  ;  applies  to  Jeffrey  re¬ 
specting  Astronomy  professorship, 
315,  319;  his  application  declined, 
315  ;  his  resentment  against  Jeffrey, 
315  ;  his  great  arrogance,  317  ;  its 
quality,  318 ;  his  last  attempt  at 
obtaining  office,  324,  327  ;  thoughts 
as  to  settlement  in  America,  325 ; 
his  financial  position,  325  ;  his  kind¬ 
ness  to  William  Glen,  325;  learns 
Greek  with  Glen,  325,  326  ;  studies 
Homer,  326,  327 ;  his  opinion  of, 
327,  328 ;  on  the  characters  in 
Homer,  328  ;  first  thoughts  of  Lon¬ 
don,  328 ;  last  winter  at  Craigen¬ 
puttock,  330,  333  ;  agrees  to  con¬ 
tribute  to  a  new  Radical  Review, 
330  ;  resolves  to  remove  to  London, 

332,  333 ;  ‘  burning  of  the  ships,’ 

333,  334 ;  journeys  alone  to  Lon¬ 
don,  house-seeking,  335  ;  his  men¬ 
tal  wealth,  336  ;  his  ‘  History  of  the 


French  Revolution,’  336  ;  his  poem 
‘  Cui  Bono  ?  ’  339  ;  Mrs.  Carlyle’s 
Answer  to  this,  339 ;  his  verses 
‘  The  Sigh,’  340  ;  his  sketch  of  Old 
Esther,  341 ;  partings  with  his 
relatives,  343 ;  arrival  in  London, 
343 ;  house-hunting,  344,  345 ; 

meeting  with  Irving,  344 ;  a  frugal 
dinner,  344 ;  his  description  of 
Cheyne  Row,  and  house  in  it,  345 ; 
futile  efforts  to  see  Irving,  347 ; 
London  friends,  347  ;  his  final  visit 
to  Jeffrey,  348  ;  successful  visit  to 
Irving,  350 ;  arrival  of  his  wife 
from  Scotland,  350 ;  removes  to 
house  at  Cheyne  Row,  350 ;  the 
drive  from  Ampton  Street,  351  and 
note ;  resumes  studies  on  French 
Revolution,  352 ;  his  friendship 
with  Leigh  Hunt  and  family,  354 ; 
uncertain  humours  and  renewed 
despondency,  357 ;  his  friends, 
358  ;  an  Irishman  from  Cork,  359 ; 
recognition  from  Emerson,  359 ; 
disappointment  respecting  new 
Radical  Review,  360  ;  his  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  361  ;  Annan  friends 
in  London,  365  note ;  the  Cheyne 
Row  commissariat,  366,  368 ;  re¬ 
paid  money  advanced  to  his  brother, 
367  ;  daily  habits,  369  ;  at  burning 
of  Parliament  Houses,  370 ;  sketch 
of  Miss  Miles,  371,  373  ;  at  a  Radi¬ 
cal  meeting,  371 ;  on  public  speak¬ 
ing,  372  ;  his  account  of  Irving’s 
farewell  visit  and  death,  375 ; 
letter  to  his  mother  respecting 
Irving’s  life  and  character,  375 ; 
his  article  on,  in  ‘  Fraser,’  376  ;  Rus- 
kin’s  saying  respecting,  383 ;  his 
labours  on  the  ‘  French  Revolution,’ 
385 ;  various  aspects  of  his  life 
and  character,  379-386 
Catlinns,  Alex.  Carlyle’s  farm  at,  ii. 

223,  239  note ,  309,  311 
Chalmers,  Dr.,  i.  58,  62,  66,  68  ;  Car¬ 
lyle’s  opinion  of,  69,  81,  113,  340 
1  Characteristics,’  finished,  ii.  185 ; 
sent  to  Rapier,  198;  its  text,  198; 
Mill’s  estimate  of,  198  ;  accepted  by 
Napier,  199  ;  warmly  received,  215  ; 
admired  by  a  tailor  at  Thornhill, 
228 

Charles  X.,  i.  198,  202 
Chateaubriand,  i.  304 
Chelsea,  description  of,  ii.  345,  346 
Cheyne  Row,  Carlyle’s  description  of, 
fifty  years  ago,  ii.  345,  352 ;  his 
house  in,  345  ;  he  removes  to,  351 ; 


394  Index * 


4  raising  reek  ’  in,  351  note ;  garden 
at,  352 

Chico,  the  canary-bird,  ii.  334,  350, 
351  and  note,  352 

Cholera,  the,  in  England,  ii.  178  ;  its 
effects  on  people’s  minds,  and  on 
trade,  179;  at  Sunderland,  179; 
apprehensions  respecting,  183 ; 
Jeffrey  on,  188;  at  Carlisle,  226, 
230,  247 ;  ravages  by,  at  Dumfries, 
230  note ,  257 ;  a  Catholic  priest  and, 
230  note ;  spreading  in  the  north, 
247 ;  four  carriers  die  of,  247  ;  its 
subsidence,  257 ;  at  Penpont,  near 
Templand,  284 

Clare,  Countess  of,  engages  John  Car¬ 
lyle  as  travelling  physician,  ii.  145  ; 
her  character,  146,  147 ;  her  hus¬ 
band,  147 ;  her  return  to  England, 
276 

Clothes,  ii.  69  ;  essay  on,  74 ;  philo¬ 
sophy  of,  104,  105 

Coach  agents,  villany  of,  ii.  133,  134 

Cockneys,  ignorance  of,  ii.  184 

Colburn  and  Bentley,  the  publishers, 
refuse  ‘Sartor  Resartus,’  ii,  154, 155 

Coleridge,  i.  178  ;  mot  of  Lamb  re¬ 
specting,  179 ;  portrait  of,  by  Car¬ 
lyle,  179.  205,  214,  238 

Comely  Bank,  house  at,  taken,  i.  271 ; 
description  of,  289  ;  life  and  so¬ 
ciety  at,  307,  310;  Wednesday 

evenings  at,  311  ;  the  Carlyles  leave, 
for  Craigenputtock,  352 

Corn-law  rhymes,  article  on,  ii.  219. 

Coterie  speech  in  Carlyle  family,  i. 
259 

Craigcrook,  i.  332 

Craigenputtock,  i.  87 ;  laird  of,  and 
the  dragoons,  88 ;  Carlyle  purposes 
farming  at,  220 ;  finally  resolves 
on  settling  at,  317 ;  the  Carlyles’ 
visit  of  inspection  to,  350 ;  their 
removal  to,  352 ;  description  of, 
ii.  19 ;  its  inclement  climate,  19 ; 
aversion  of  Mrs.  Carlyle  to,  19  ;  the 
Carlyles  remove  to,  20  ;  early  days 
at,  20 ;  its  interior,  30 ;  Jeffrey  at, 
33 ;  view  of,  engraved  at  Frank¬ 
fort,  74 ;  Alick  Carlyle  leaves,  97  ; 
a  ‘  blasted  Pai-adise,’  100  ;  the  shoot¬ 
ing  of,  let,  242,  290  ;  violent  storms 
at,  311 ;  gloom  and  stillness  of, 
338 

Crawford,  John,  as  a  public  speaker, 
ii.  372 

Crichope  Linn,  verses  on,  ii.  295 

‘  Cui  Bono  ?  ’  Carlyle’s  poem,  ii.  339  ; 
his  wife’s  Answer  to,  399 


Cunningham,  Allan,  i.  177,  239 ; 

ii.  150 ;  a  ‘  genuine  ’  man,  168, 
356,  362 

Cuvier,  i.  199 ;  his  lecture,  202 ; 
Carlyle’s  sketch  of,  202 


D’ALEMBERT,  i.  50 
Descartes,  i.  305 

Detr osier,  a  Saint  Simonian,  ii.  181 
and  note 

Devil’s  Den,  the,  ii.  26,  29,  39 
Diamond  Necklace,  the,  ii.  263,  277 ; 
article  on,  280,  283  ;  finished,  312  ; 
article  on,  refused  at  first  by 
‘  Foreign  Quarterly,’  314 
Diderot,  essay  on,  ii.  215,  224 ;  article 
on,  315;  Jeffrey’s  suspected  resent¬ 
ment  at,  315 

Dilke,  C.  W.,  owner  of  ‘Athenaeum,’ 
reads  MS.  of  ‘Sartor’  at  request 
of  Carlyle,  ii.  1 86 

Dissent  and  Dissenters  in  Scotland, 
i.  10 

Divine  right  of  kings,  ii.  77 
‘Don  Quixote,’  ii.  39,  45  ;  quoted,  64 
Dover,  Carlyle’s  visit  to,  i.  194 
Dow  of  Irongray,  ii.  143 
Drumclog  Moss,  i.  70 
Drummond,  Henry,  described  by  Car¬ 
lyle,  ii.  143;  a  dinner  at  his  house, 
144 

Dumfries,  ii.  224,  225  ;  streets  in,  227 ; 
ravages  of  the  cholera  at,  230 
note  ;  257,  329,  330 
‘Dumfries  Courier,’  letter  of  ‘Vox’ 
to,  ii.  56 

Duncan,  G.  A.,  his  corresponcence 
with  Carlyle  on  Prayer,  ii.  16 
Dunscore  Moss,  ii.  228 
Dupin,  i.  202 
Diirer,  Albert,  ii.  356 
Duverrier,  visits  Carlyle,  ii.  182 


EARLY  German  Literature,  essay 
on,  ii.  95  note 

Eeclefechan,  i.  2 ;  its  etymology,  2 
note  ;  Carlyles  leave  the  town,  27 
Edinburgh,  Carlyle’s  first  visit  to,  i. 
18  ;  his  first  impressions  of,  19,  20 ; 
society  in,  266,  307 ;  Carlyle’s  dis¬ 
content  with,  279,  280 
‘  Edinburgh  Review,’  i.  60  ;  Carlyle’s 
admission  and  first  contribution  to, 
321,  322 ;  his  essay  on  Jean  Paul 
in,  323  ;  ii.  37 ;  editorship  of,  46 ; 
Macvey  Napier  appointed  editor, 
47;  123,  125  note,  176;  4  Charac- 


Index . 


395 


teristics  ’  accepted  for,  199  ;  215  ; 
Carlyle  on,  254 
Editors,  function  of,  ii.  1S5 
Education,  on,  ii.  183 
Eichthal,  Gustave  d’,  Mrs.  Carlyle’s 
friendship  for,  ii.  182 
Elizabethan  era,  i.  803 
Elliot,  Ebenezer,  Cartyle’s  article  on, 
ii.  215 

Emerson,  Ralph  W.,  his  visit  to  the 
Carlyles,  ii.  287,  290 ;  his  account 
of  Carlyle  and  life  at  Craigenput- 
tock,  28S  ;  cordial  letter  from,  859 
Empson,  ii.  123,  145 ;  described  by 
Carlyle,  151,  154,  163 ;  186,  248 
Engineering,  Carlyle’s  thoughts  re¬ 
specting,  ii.  377  and  note 
England,  the  Church  of,  ii.  59 
Entsagen ,  ii.  239 ;  its  meaning,  276  ; 

Carlyle’s  insistance  on,  291 
Epictetus,  ‘  Enchiridon  ’  of,  i.  306 
Esther,  Old,  Carlyle’s  sketch  of,  ii. 
841 ;  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  kindness  to, 
341  ;  her  death,  343 ;  a  4  memo¬ 
randum  ’  of  her,  342 
Evil  and  good  inseparable,  ii.  184 
4  Examiner  ’  newspap  er,  ii.  140,  168 


YT'ERRERS,  Earl,  ii.  153 

I.  Fichte,  i.  802 

Fonblanque,  ii.  140 ;  described  by 
Carlyle,  168  ;  accident  to,  177  ;  his 
appearance,  177 

Forbes,  Sir  Wm.,his  ‘Life  of  Beattie,’ 
ii.  327 

‘Foreign  Quarterly  Review,’  i.  332 
333,  ii.  76,  94,  113,  176,  219, 

223  ;  refuses  article  on  4  Diamond 
Necklace,’  314 

‘Foreign  Review,’  the,  i.  348,  ii.  21, 
29,  37  ;  paper  on  Voltaire  in,  62  ; 
on  Novalis,  62,  113 

Fox,  W.  J. ,  appointed  editor  of  a  new 
Radical  Review,  ii.  330,  360,  361 ; 
Carlyle’s  description  of,  362 ;  a 
‘friend  of  the  species,’  370 

Fraser,  J ames,  proprietor  of  the  Maga¬ 
zine,  ii.  94,  95 ;  his  offer  for 

4  Sartor,’  144  ;  sends  Croker’s  Bos¬ 
well  to  Carlyle,  186  ;  a  dinner  with, 
188,  212,  330 ;  his  conversation 

with  Carlyle,  347 ;  his  offer  for 
History  of  French  Revolution,  352  ; 

4  Fraser’s  Magazine,’  its  contents,  ii. 
72  ;  4  Sartor  ’  published  in,  piece¬ 
meal,  281,  326;  Carlyle’s  article  on 
Irving  in,  376 

Fraser,  William,  his  want  of  punc¬ 


tuality,  ii.  221 ;  loses  Carlyle’s  let¬ 
ters,  221 

French  Revolution,  the,  T.  Carlyle’s 
studies  of,  ii.  263,  298,  325,  352,  356, 
359  ;  his  History  of,  336  ;  perplexed 
by,  362  ;  inaccessible  pamphlets  on, 
in  British  Museum,  363  ;  he  com¬ 
mences  History  of,  366,  368 

4  Friends  of  the  species,’  ii.  370  ;  their 
households,  371 


Galloway,  a  tour  in,  ii.  244 

Galt,  John,  characterised,  ii. 
188  212 

Gell,  Sir  William,  ii.  222 
Genealogy  of  Carlyle  family,  i.  291 

note 

German  literature,  Carlyle  commences 
study  of,  i.  72 

German  literature,  Irving’s  ideas  on, 
i.  109 

German  Literature,  Carlyle’s  History 
of,  ii.  67,  69 ;  finished,  96 ;  de¬ 
clined  by  Gleig,  96 ;  recommended 
to  Longmans  by  Jeffrey.  101  ;  in¬ 
stalment  of,  appears  in  4  Edinburgh 
Review,’  122 ;  declined  by  the 
Longmans,  136 ;  to  be  published 
in  4  Cabinet  Encyclopedia,’  199; 
but  comes  to  nothing,  194 
4  German  Romance,’  projected,  i.  241  ; 
work  at,  244 ;  finished,  290 ;  in¬ 
scribed  to  James  Carlyle,  309 ; 
financially  a  failure,  315  ;  sent  to 
Goethe,  325 
Gift  of  tongues,  ii.  143 
Gigmania,  it.  98  note 
Glasgow,  Radical  rising  in,  i.  58  ;  dis¬ 
tress  in,  68  ;  Carlyle’s  visit  to,  69 
Gleig  (afterwards  Chaplain-General), 
ii.  94 

Glen,  William,  ii.  152,  162  ;  his  eccen¬ 
tricity,  182,  225  ;  Carlyle’s  kindness 
to,  325  ;  teaches  Carlyle  Greek,  325, 
826  ;  reads  Homer  with,  326 
Godwin,  William,  ii.  138 ;  described 
by  Carlyle,  139 ;  Wollstonecraft’s 
Life  of,  167 

Goethe,  J.  - W. ,  Carlyle  studies  his 
works,  i.  106;  contrasted  with  Schil¬ 
ler,  106;  his  4  Wilhelm  Meister,’ 
107 ;  his  estimate  of  Carlyle’s  Life 
of  Schiller,  206  ;  first  letter  from, 
to  Carlyle,  215 ;  quoted,  302 ;  his 
4  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit,’ quoted, 
306  ;  De  Quincy’s  opinion  of,  323  ; 
his  letter  and  gifts  to  Carlyle,  325- 
331 ;  praises  4  Life  of  Schiller,’  326; 


396 


Index. 


sends  verses  to  Carlyle,  331 ;  writes 
testimonial  to  Carlyle  for  St.  An¬ 
drew’s  professorship,  341  ;  his  in¬ 
sight  into  Carlyle’s  temperament, 
352  ;  his  presents  to  Carlyle  and  to 
Sir  W.  Scott,  352 ;  on  the  genius 
of  Carlyle,  ii.  1  ;  sends  medals  to 
Sir  W.  Scott,  23,  32  ;  article  on,  by 
Carlyle  in  ‘Foreign  Review,’  29; 
his  ‘  Helena,’  30  ;  translates  Car¬ 
lyle’s  ‘Essay  on  Burns.’  31  ;  sends 
the  ‘  ornamented  Schiller  ’  to  Car¬ 
lyle,  74;  his  morality,  76;  proposals 
to  Carlyle  for  a  Life  of,  80 ;  letter 
to  Carlyle,  with  copies  of  his  works, 
83;  his  ‘  Farbenlehre,’  85;  lines 
to  Mrs.  Carlyle,  86  ;  cautions  Car¬ 
lyle  respecting  the  St.  Simonians, 
110;  letter  to  Carlyle,  126;  on 
good  and  evil,  185 ;  Carlyle’s  in¬ 
debtedness  to,  210 ;  the  news  of 
his  death  reaches  Carlyle  at  Scots- 
brig,  215 ;  Carlyle’s  article,  ‘  The 
Death  of  Goethe,’  215,  219;  con- 
culding  article  on,  by  Carlyle  for 
‘Foreign  Quarterly,’ 215,  219,  223; 
his  ‘  Italian  Travels,’  222  ;  quoted, 
231 ;  his  last  words.  211  ;  Carlyle’s 
last  present  from,  258 ;  his  estimate 
of  Carlyle,  259 ;  and  of  Bulwer, 
259;  the  greatest  of  contemporary 
men,  300 

Gordon,  John,  i.  324 ;  ii.  269 
Gordon,  Margaret,  Carlyle’s  friendship 
with,  i.  41 ;  her  marriage,  41 ;  origi¬ 
nal  or  Blumine  in  ‘Sartor,’  41; 
meets  Carlyle  in  London,  41  ;  her 
correspondence  with  him,  42 
‘Gospel  of  force,’  defined,  ii.  6 
Graham,  W.,  of  Burnswark,  ii.  196 
Grey,  Earl,  and  his  followers,  ii.  227 
Gusting  bone,  a,  ii.  355,  357 


Haddington,  the  school  at,  i. 

96;  Irving  schoolmaster  at,  i. 
97 

Hall,  Capt.  Basil,  offer  to  Carlyle 
from,  i.  78 

Hamilton,  Sir  Wm.,  i.  307,  339;  his 
earnestness,  ii.  266,  268  ;  277,  280 
Hans  Sachs,  i.  302 

Hatton  Garden  Chapel,  invitation  to 
Irving  from,  i.  113 ;  his  success 
there,  113  ;  the  Duke  of  York  at, 
114  ;  Irving’s  appointment  as  minis¬ 
ter  of,  123 

Hayward,  Abraham,  Carlyle’s  evening 
with,  ii.  186  ;  urges  Carlyle  to  write 


final  article  on  Goethe,  199  ;  his  ser¬ 
vice  to  Carlyle,  199 
Hazlitt,  i.  214  ;  Jeffrey’s  kindness  to, 
ii.  101  ;  doubtful  anecdotes  of,  169 
Hegel,  death  of,  ii.  199 
Heine,  i.  302;  essay  on,  ii.  29 
Heraud,  J.  A.,  characterised,  ii.  347 
Herder,  i.  302  ;  his  ‘  Ideen,’  304 
Herschel,  and  Astronomy  professor¬ 
ship,  ii.  319 

Hoddam  Hill,  the  farm  taken  by  Car¬ 
lyle,  i.  242 ;  he  removes  thither, 
243 ;  description  of,  244 ;  life  at, 
244,  246,  264;  Miss  Welsh  visits, 
351 ;  Carlyle  leaves,  269,  270 
Hogg,  James,  characterised,  ii.  198, 
212  ;  his  vanity,  189 ;  Carlyle’s  in¬ 
terest  in,  189 ;  his  poetic  talent, 
189 

Homer,  Carlyle  on,  ii.  327  ;  and  his 
studies  of,  327,  328  ;  on  the  charac¬ 
ters  in  his  works,  328 
Honesty,  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of 
Common,  ii.  229 
Hooker,  quoted,  ii.  63 
Hope,  Adam,  his  friendship  with 
Carlyle,  i.  33 

Hope,  David,  anecdote  of,  i.  10 
Hope,  Thomas,  his  book  on  Man,  ii. 
159 

House  of  Commons,  Carlyle’s  descrip¬ 
tion  of,  ii.  140 

House  of  Lords,  Carlyle  at,  ii.  153 
Houses  of  Parliament,  burning  of,  ii. 
370 

Hudibras,  i.  323  * 

Hume,  Joseph,  i.  305,  ii.  lfO 
Humour,  definition  of,  i.  313 
Hunt,  Leigh,  i.  214  ;  his  ‘  Lord  Byron,’ 
ii.  24,  165  ;  his  household  at  Chelsea, 
344 ;  advocates  ‘  women’s  rights,’ 
344  note  ;  the  Carlyles’  intercourse 
with,  351 ,  352  ;  Carlyle’s  friendship 
with,  and  description  of,  354,  356  ; 
his  modesty,  354 ;  his  family  and 
household,  354 ;  his  theory  of  life, 
356 ;  characterised,  358 


INGLIS,  HENRY,  on  Irving’s 

preaching,  ii.  23  ;  visits  Carlyle  at 
Craigenputtock,  40 ;  265 ;  his  en¬ 
thusiastic  opinion  of  ‘  Sartor  Resar- 
tus,’  273  ;  on  blockheads,  299  note 
Inspiration,  ii.  70 

Irving,  Edward,  i.  9,  14 ;  his  early 
career,  31  ;  manages  school  at  Had¬ 
dington,  31  ;  becomes  tutor  to  Miss 
Jane  B.  Welsh,  31 ;  removes  to  Kirk- 


Index. 


397 


caldy,  31 ;  first  meeting,  and  anti-  | 
macy,  with  Carlyle,  32,  33  ;  disagrees  1 
with  Kirkcaldy  folk,  43  ;  accused  of 
severity  to  pupils,  44  note  ;  resigns  i 
schoolmastership,  45  ;  letter  to  Car¬ 
lyle,  55  ;  appointed  assistant  to  Dr. 
Chalmers,  58  ;  his  advice  to  Carlyle, 
59,  73  ;  at  Annan,  72  ;  invites  Car¬ 
lyle  to  Glasgow,  78 ;  consolatory 
letters  to  Carlyle,  80 ;  becomes 
tutor  to  Miss  Welsh,  97 ;  his  en¬ 
gagement  to  Miss  Martin,  and  his 
wish  for  release,  102 ;  his  love  for 
Miss  Welsh,  103;  his  misgivings  as 
to  her  German  studies,  107 ; 
his  uneasiness  at  Glasgow,  113 ; 
accepts  invitation  to  preach  at  Hat¬ 
ton  Garden  Chapel,  113  ;  his  success 
in  preaching,  113  ;  introduction  to 
Mrs.  Buller,  114 ;  he  recommends 
Carlyle  as  tutor  to  her  sons,  114; 
his  opinion  of  Charles  Buller,  115  ; 
his  apointment  to  Hatton  Garden 
Chapel,  123  ;  letters  to  Miss  Welsh, 
124  126 ;  his  great  popularity  in 
London,  125  ;  mental  struggles, 
129 ;  his  marriage,  130  ;  change  in 
character,  130 ;  Carlyle  on  his  Lon¬ 
don  career  and  on  his  book  on  Last 
Judgment.  151,  152  ;  contrast  of  his 
lot  with  Carlyle’s,  152 ;  the  theo¬ 
logical  lion  of  the  age,  152  ;  hollow¬ 
ness  of  his  success,  153 ;  his  wed¬ 
ding  tour,  153 ;  letter  to  Miss  Welsh, 
153 ;  his  expectations  for  Carlyle, 
167 ;  with  Carlyle  in  London,  176, 
192;  birth  of  his  son,  189  ;  at  Dover, 
195 ;  his  parental  affection,  197 ; 
humorous  sketches  of,  by  Carlyle, 
197,  208 ;  ceases  to  be  lionised, 
209 ;  his  followers,  213 ;  takes  to 
interpretation  of  prophecy,  241 ; 
his  singularity,  266,  267 ;  at  An¬ 
nan,  267 ;  visit  from  Carlyle,  267 ; 
his  influence  on  Carlyle’s  style.  324; 
urges  Carlyle  to  apply  for  a  London 
professorship,  335 ;  his  voluminous 
testimonial  to  Carlyle  for  a  St.  An¬ 
drew’s  professorship,  341 ;  at  Edin¬ 
burgh,  ii.  23  ;  fatality  at  Kirkcaldy, 
when  preaching,  30;  Carlyle’s  re¬ 
flections  on,  98 ;  on  1  Sartor  Re- 
sartus,’  114;  visit  from  Carlyle, 
138 ;  continued  success  among  fa¬ 
natical  class,  138 ;  on  the  super¬ 
natural,  143 ;  on  miracles,  163 ;  his 
increased  extravagances,  172 ;  a 
‘  speaking  with  tongues  ’  meeting 
described  by  Carlyle,  173  ;  the  news¬ 


papers  on,  174  ;  Carlyle’s  fears  for 
him,  and  remonstrances,  174; 
visit  to  Carlyle,  and  advice  from  him, 
177,  179 ;  his  altered  appearance, 
196;  with  Carlyle  on  his  father’s 
burial  day,  206  ;  in  danger  of  eject¬ 
ment,  213;  his  ‘Morning  Watch,’ 
characterised,  213 ;  his  father’s 
death,  225,  241 ;  summoned  before 
Annan  Presbytery,  225 ;  preaches 
in  the  fields,  his  precentor  in  a  tree, 
225 ;  preaches  in  bazaar  in  Gray's 
Inn  Road,  241 ;  his  adherents,  241 ; 
at  Newman  Street,  245  ;  his  papers 
in  ‘  Fraser  1  on  the  Tongues,  246 ; 
his  speech  at  the  Annan  Presbytery, 
275,  278 ;  his  letter  to  the  news¬ 
papers,  278  ;  meets  Carlyle  in  Lon¬ 
don,  344;  his  illness  and  avoidance 
of  Carlyle,  347  ;  long  conversation 
with  him,  350,  363 ;  his  last  visit  to 
the  Carlyles,  374 ;  his  death  at 
Glasgow,  375 ;  Carlyle’s  letter  to 
his  mother  on  his  life  and  charac¬ 
ter,  375  ;  Carlyle’s  love  for,  376 
Isaiah,  Prophesies  of,  their  modern 
value,  ii.  229 


JEFFREY,  FRANCIS  (afterwards 
Lord  Jeffrey),  Carlyle’s  letter  of 
introduction  to,  i.  311,  320 ;  visit 
from  Carlyle,  320,  322  ;  his  estimate 
of  Carlyle,  321  ;  Ins  character,  321  ; 
employs  Carlyle  on  ‘Edinburgh 
Review,’  321 ;  intimacy  with  Car¬ 
lyle,  332  ;  his  testimonial  to  Carlyle 
for  St.  Andrew’s  professorship,  340; 
his  sobriquet  of  ‘  the  Duke,’  342 ; 
efforts  to  be  of  use  to  Carlyle,  ii.  26  ; 
altercation  with  Carlyle  about  article 
on  Burns,  31,  34;  visits  him  at 
Craigenputtock,  33 ;  his  spiritual 
creed,  34,  45 ;  on  Carlyle’s  mysti¬ 
cism,  35;  New  Year’s  greeting  to 
Carlyle,  45 ;  charm  of  his  style,  45  ; 
his  wish  to  serve  Carlyle,  46  ;  ceases 
to  edit  ‘Edinburgh  Review,’  47; 
offers  annuity  to  Carlyle,  52 ; 
66 ;  becomes  Lord  Advocate  and 
M.P.,  78;  his  second  visit  to 

Craigenputtock,  100;  his  social 
qualities,  101  ;  his  kindness  to 
Hazlitt,  101 ;  takes  charge  of  His¬ 
tory  of  German  Literature,  101  ;  his 
talent  analysed,  102 ;  as  a  mimic, 
103  ;  his  social  qualities,  conversa¬ 
tion,  and  popularity,  103 ;  his  ab- 
horrance  of  Radicalism,  108;  lea* 


308 


Index . 


tures  Carlyle,  108 ;  political  specu¬ 
lations,  108 ;  a  Malthusian,  111 ; 
removes  to  London,  113 ;  assists 
John  Carlyle,  121  ;  correspondence 
with  Mrs.  Carlyle,  129 ;  his  loan  to 
Carlyle,  130 ;  introduces  him  to 
Murray  the  publisher,  135  ;  at  home 
in  Jermyn  Street,  138  ;  recommends 
John  Carlyle  as  physician  to  Lady 
Clare,  145,  146 ;  his  criticism  of 
‘Sartor  Resartus,’  150;  on  the 
cholera,  188  ;  his  regard  for  Mrs. 
Carlyle,  216,  232  ;  a  candidate  for 
Edinburgh  membership,  226  ;  irri¬ 
tated  with  Carlyle,  232  ;  dinner  to 
him  at  Edinburgh,  122  ;  to  be  made 
a  judge,  312 ;  his  opinion  of 
Macaulay,  312 ;  declines  to  recom¬ 
mend  Carlyle  for  Astronomy  pro¬ 
fessorship,  315,  318 ;  his  letter  to 
Carlyle  characterised,  316,  318; 
vindication  of  his  conduct,  317 ; 
his  secretary  as  an  astronomer,  320  ; 
on  Carlyle’s  manner,  221  ;  acknow¬ 
ledges  subsequently  his  error  in  his 
judgment  of  Carlyle,  323  ;  i  i  Lon¬ 
don,  348  ;  Carlyle’s  last  visit  to,  348 
Jews,  sense  of  the  ridiculous  wanting 
in,  i.  91  ;  their  character  and  reli¬ 
gious  conceptions,  ii.  11 
Jewsbury,  Miss,  on  the  character  of 
Miss  Welsh,  i.  99;  on  life  at 
Craigenputtock,  ii.  338 
Johnson,  Dr.,  Carlyle  visits  his  house 
in  Gough  Square,  ii.  187  ;  Carlyle’s 
review  of  Croker’s  Life  of,  for  Fra¬ 
ser,  212 ;  the  article  warmly  re¬ 
ceived,  215  ;  Mill’s  delight  with  it, 
220 

Johnstone,  George,  ii.  132 
Johnstone,  John,  teaches  Carlyle 
Latin,  i.  6,  13  ;  his  congregation,  9 


KANT,  his  philosophy,  i.  158  ;  his 
‘Kritik  der  reinen  Vernunft,’ 
395  ;  802  ;  pamphlet  about,  ii.  26 
Kempis,  Thomas  a,  Carlyle  sends 
famous  book  by,  to  his  mother,  ii. 
272  ;  his  opinion  of  it,  272 
Kenny,  Mrs.,  ii.  139 
Kew  Green,  Carlyle  removes  to,  with 
Buller  family,  i.  180  ;  his  descrip¬ 
tion  of,  181 

Kilbride,  Church  of,  ii.  252 
King’s  College,  London,  ii.  26-28 
Kinnaird  House,  Carlyle  there  with 
Buller  family,  145 

Kirkcaldy,  Carlyle  and  Irving  at,  i. 


33 ;  description  of,  40  ;  fatal  acci¬ 
dent  at,  ii.  30 

Kirkpatrick,  Miss,  i.  195  ;  visits  Paris 
with  Mr.  Straclxey  and  Carlyle,  198 
ii.  28 

Knox,  John,  i.  87 


LADIES’-MAIDS  and  literature, 
ii.  302 

Lafayette,  characterised,  ii.  300 
Lamb,  Charles,  his  mot  about  Cole, 
ridge,  i.  179 ;  Carlyle’s  harsh  esti¬ 
mate  of,  ii.  170  ;  his  irregular  habits, 
170  ;  the  tragedy  of  his  life,  170 
Laplace,  i.  198,  202 
Lardner,  Dr.,  proposes  to  publish 
‘  History  of  German  Literature,  ’  ix. 
199 

Last  Judgment,  Irving’s  book  on,  i. 
151 

Laughter,  varieties  of,  i.  91 
Legendre,  his  ‘  Elements  of  Geometry,’ 
i.  Ill  ;  translated  by  Carlyle,  118; 
Carlyle  visits,  at  Paris,  198,  202  ;  ii. 
315 

Leibnitz,  i.  305 

Leslie,  Professor,  i.  21,  32  ;  Carlyle’s 
mathematical  teacher,  341  ;  his  tes¬ 
timonial  for  St.  Andrew’s  professor¬ 
ship,  341 

Leyden,  John,  verses  on  Mrs.  Buller, 
i.  134  note 

L  braries  and  jails,  ii.  227 
‘Literary  men,’  Carlyle’s  contempt 
for,  ii.  151 

Literature,  Old  English,  its  character¬ 
istics,  i.  803 

Liverpool,  T.  Carlyle  at,  ii.  132  ;  the 
Carlyles  at,  214 
Llandaff,  Bishop  of,  ii.  28 
Lockhart,  becomes  editor  of  ‘  Quarter¬ 
ly  Review,’  i.  274,  332;  writes  a 
Life  of  Burns,  ii.  23  ;  as  editor  of 
‘Quarterly  Review,’  162;  intro¬ 
duced  to  Carlyle,  188 ;  character¬ 
ised,  188,  212 

London,  Carlyle’s  first  visit  to,  i.  176  ; 
his  impressions  of  it  and  its  society, 
176  ;  Carlyle’s  second  journey  to,  ii. 
129  ;  his  arrival  at,  133 ;  men  born 
in,  361 

‘  London  Magazine,’  i.  129  ;  his  Life 
of  Schiller  published  in,  157 
London  University,  i.  335,  336,  347 ; 
ii.  27 

Longmans,  German  Literary  History, 
declined  by,  ii.  136  ;  4  Sartor  Resar¬ 
tus  ’  offered  to,  144 


Index. 


399 


Louis  XVIII. ,  i.  198 
Luther,  his  practice  of  fasting,  ii.  61 ; 
his  character,  62 ;  Carlyle  contem¬ 
plates  Life  of,  80,  95  :  Carlyle  offers 
article  on,  to  Napier,  154  ;  but  de¬ 
clined  by  him,  158 

Lytton  Bulwer,  E.,  solicits  interview 
with  Carlyle,  ii.  193  ;  presses  for  an 
article  on  Frederick  the  Great,  199. 


ACAULAY,  T.  B.,  ii.  163;  cha¬ 
racterised,  187 ;  his  paper  on 
Horace  Walpole,  301 ;  Carlyle’s 
opinion  of,  301  ;  Jeffrey’s  opinion 
of,  312 

MacCrie,  Dr.,  ii.  274 

Macculloch,  of  the  ‘Scotsman,’  i. 

i41  ;  characterised,  ii.  377 
Mackintosh,  Sir  James,  Carlyle’s  de¬ 
scription  of,  ii.  166 ;  death  of,  228 
‘  Miihrchen,’  Das,  translated  by  Car¬ 
lyle,  ii.  215 ;  revised,  224 
Mainhill,  the  Carlyles  remove  to,  i. 
28 ;  family  life  there,  36,  38 ;  T. 
Carlyle’s  life  and  work  at,  172 
Martin,  Rev.  Mr.,  i.  39 
Martineau,  Miss,  ii.  347 
Mendelssohn,  Moses,  i.  302 ;  his 
‘  Phredon,’  305 

Miles,  Miss  E.,  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  friend¬ 
ship  for,  ii.  232 ;  offers  to  go  to 
Scotland  with  her, 232  ;  sketch  of,  by 
Carlyle,  371  ;  a  follower  of  Irving, 
371 ;  her  marriage,  371  ;  sudden 
death  of  her  father,  373  ♦ 

Mill  J.  S.,  ii.  153;  his  appearance, 
153  ;  his  conversation,  154, 162,  176  ; 
his  Catholicism  and  love  of  truth, 
190  ;  C.  Buller’s  praise  of,  190,  191  ; 
his  sympathy  with  Carlyle,  2.20 ; 
his  delight  with  article  on  Johnson, 
221,  228 ;  a  disciple  of  Carlyle, 
221  ;  cannot  admit  Goethe’s  great¬ 
ness,  221  ;  assists  Carlyle  with 
books,  &c.,  263  ;  characterised,  270  ; 
disappointed  with  Reform  Bill, 
272 ;  introduces  Emerson  to  Car¬ 
lyle,  287 ;  his  close  correspondence 
with  Carlyle,  291  ;  his  views  on 
Christianity,  292  ;  ‘  tragical  ’  story 
respecting,  347 ;  Carlyle’s  esteem 
for,  349 ;  offers  to  print  ‘  Diamond 
Necklace,’  at  his  own  expense,  360  ; 
liis  reasonableness,  370 
Miracles,  Carlyle  on,  ii.  3,  65 
Mirth,  false,  ii.  188 
Moir,  George,  ii.  266,  268 
Molesworth,  Sir  Wm. ,  Carlyle’s  esteem 


for,  ii.  350 ;  the  Radical  Review 
and,  350 

Montagu,  Basil,  Carlyle’s  esteem  of, 
i.  209 

Montagu,  Mrs.  Basil,  i.  177 ;  her  sou¬ 
briquet  of  ‘  the  noble  lady,’  177  not e, 
208;  ii.  136;  pecuniary  offer  to 
Mrs.  Carlyle,  142 ;  181  ;  her  friend¬ 
ship  cools,  373 

Moore,  Thomas,  characterised,  ii.  187 

Morgarten,  verses  by  Carlyle  on  battle 
of,  i.  138 

Morgue,  Carlyle  at  the,  i.  199 

Muffins  in  London,  ii.  184 

Murray,  John,  Carlyle  sends  ‘Sartor’ 
to,  ii.  135,  140  ;  his  delay  respecting 
it,  141,  144;  his  offer  for  it,  154  ; 
his  correspondence  with  Carlyle 
respecting  it,  158 

Murray,  Thomas,  Carlyle’s  correspon¬ 
dence  with,  i.  29 

Museum,  British,  Carlyle  at,  ii.  361  ; 
impatience  with,  363 


"VT APIER,  MACVEY,  appointed 
editor  of  ‘ Edinburgh  Review,’ 
ii.  47 ;  128,  145,  154  ;  on  prevailing 
literary  taste,  158  ;  declines  article  on 
Luther,  158 ;  suggests  another  sub¬ 
ject,  159  ;  ‘  Characteristics  ’  sent  to, 
197;  accepted  by,  199;  remiss  in 
payment  for  articles,  264,  268 ;  cha¬ 
racterised,  269,  278 ;  Carlyle  dines 
with,  278,  348 
Narration,  art  of,  i.  306 
Nelson,  Ben,  ii.  223,  229 
Nettles,  Carlyle’s  battle  with,  ii.  99 
note 

‘New  Monthly  Magazine,’  ii.  72;  its 
character,  198,  200 

‘Nibelungen  Lied,’  essay  on,  ii.  95 
note 

Nicknames,  ii.  71 

Nicol,  Dr.,  principal  of  St.  Andrew’s 
University,  i.  340 ;  his  character 
and  influence,  342 
Nigger  question,  the,  ii.  112 
‘Noble  lady,’  the  (Mrs.  Montagu), 
ii.  181,  245.  See  Montagu,  Mrs. 

‘  Noctes  Ambrosianse,’  ii.  199 
North,  Christopher,  see  Wilson,  John 
Novalis,  his  ‘  Schriften,’  ii.  60  ;  his 
character,  62 ;  on  religion,  65 ; 
quoted,  70,  205 

Novel,  Carlyle  commences  a,  i.  302, 
310  ;  failure  of,  315 
‘Novelle,’  translated  by  Carlyle,  ii. 
224 


400 


I /  idx'tC'  • 


'CONNELL,  DANIEL,  ii.  140  ;  a 

real  demagogue,  188  ;  hia  4  cun¬ 
ning,’  188 

Optics,  spiritual,  ii.  7 
Orr,  John,  i.  4 
Oxford,  i.  192 

PALAIS  ROYAL,  Carlyle  at  the, 
i.  201 

Paley,  his  1  Horae  Paulinae,’  i.  144,  306 
Paris,  trip  to,  decided  on,  i.  198 ;  jour¬ 
ney  thither,  198 ;  Carlyle’s  impres¬ 
sions  of,  198 

Phaeton,  a  ‘gigman,’  ii.  229 
Poetry,  ultimate  object  of,  i.  303 ; 

Carlyle’s  doubtful  love  of,  ii.  66 
Poe,  Reginald  and  Anna,  i.  149 
Politeness,  ii.  70 

Political  economy,  estimate  of,  i.  305 ; 

Carlyle  on,  ii.  67 
Political  life,  courtesies  of,  i.  306 
Pope,  his  1  Homer’s  Odyssey,’  ii.  78 
Prayer,  Carlyle  on,  ii.  17 
Precentor,  Irving’s,  in  a  tree,  ii.  225 
Procter,  Bryan  W.  (Barry  Cornwall), 
Carlyle’s  estimate  of,  i.  177,  214 ; 
characterised,  ii.  213,  245 
Property,  ii.  75 
Prophetesses,  ii.  173 
Puttock,  i.  87  note 

Quacks,  ii.  63 

4  Quarterly  Review,’  Southey’s 
article  in,  ii.  1 62 

Quincey  (De),  Thomas,  reviews  Car¬ 
lyle’s  4  Meister  ’  unfavourably,  i.  186; 
his  career,  214.  307 ;  his  opinion  of 
Richter  and  Goethe,  323  ;  described 
by  Carlyle,  339,  349  ;his  ill-fortune, 
ii.  277 

ADICAL  DISTURBANCES  at 
Glasgow,  i.  58 
Radical  Review,  a  new,  instituted  by 
Mill,  Buller,  and  others,  ii.  330, 
357  •  Carlyle  agrees  to  contribute 
to,  331  ;  Sir  W.  Molesworth  and, 
319;  Carlyle  hopes  for  editorship 
of,  352 ;  W.  J.  Fox  appointed  editor 
of,  330,  359,  360  ;  its  fate,  360 
Radicalism.  Carlyle  and,  ii.  370 
Radicals,  Carlyle  on,  ii.  330 ;  meeting 
of,  129 

Raleigh,  Sir  W. ,  i.  302 ;  hia  ‘  Advice 
to  his  Son,’  304 
Reeve,  Henry,  ii.  261, 262 
Beform,  agitation  for,  ii.  100 ;  the 
question  of,  ii.  77,  106 
Reform  Bill,  the,  thrown  out,  ii.  166 


4  Reineke  Fuchs,’  ii.  114 ;  its  influence 
on  Carlyle,  300 

Religion,  Carlyle’s,  ii.  1  ;  Jewish,  11 ; 

ancient  conceptions  of,  14 
‘Reminiscences,’  i.  40,  59,  72,  91,  93, 
104,  118,  176,  178,  194,  200 ;  quoted, 
244,  268,  322,  350 ;  memoir  of  James 
Carlyle  in,  ii.  201 

Rennie,  Geo. ,  the  sculptor,  a  friend  of 
the  Carlyles,  ii.  372 
Rhetoric,  a  chair  of,  Jeffrey  hesitates 
to  recommend  Carlyle  for,  ii.  322, 

327 

Richter,  Jean  Paul,  Carlyle’s  essay  on, 
i.  323,  331 ;  De  Quincey’s  opinion 
of,  323  ;  quoted,  ii.  63 
Ridiculous,  sense  of  the,  definition  of, 
i.  91 ;  not  possessed  by  Jews,  91 ; 
Carlyle’s,  ii.  361 
Robinson,  Crabb,  i.  348 
Roebuck,  J.  A.,  liis  oratory,  ii.  373 
Rogers,  Samuel,  characterised,  ii.  187 
Romilly,  Sir  John,  ii.  205 
4  Rotten-hearted  Lords,’  ii.  192 
Ruskin,  J.,  his  saying  respecting  Car¬ 
lyle,  ii.  383 

Russell,  Dr.,  of  Thornhill,  ii.  251 

SAINT-SIMONIANISM,  failure  of, 
ii.  144 

Saint-Simonians,  letter  from,  ii.  67 ; 
Goethe  cautions  Carlyle  as  to,  110 ; 
article  in  4  Quarterly  ’  on,  162  ;  Mrs. 
Carlyle  and,  181 ;  they  give  lectures 
in  London,  307 

‘Sartor  Resartus,’  i.  11,  14  ;  not  histo¬ 
rical,  21  ;  extract  from,  22,  46,  46 ; 
passage  from,  46 ;  growth  of,  ii. 
104 ;  defective  as  a  work  of  art, 
104;  anti-Malthusian,  110;  quoted, 
111;  Irving  on,  114;  Carlyle  at 
work  on.  126;  completed,  129;  Mrs. 
Carlyle’s  opinion  of,  130;  sent  to 
John  Murray,  135  ;  declined  by  him, 
144 ;  offer  from  Fraser  respecting, 
144;  offered  to  Lougmans,  144; 
Jeffrey’s  criticism  of,  150  ;  declined 
by  Longmans,  150  note  ;  subsequent 
offer  by  Murray  for,  154 ;  refused 
by  Colburn  and  Bentley,  155  ;  cor¬ 
respondence  with  Murray  respect¬ 
ing,  155-158 ;  finally  declined  by 
him,  157;  critical  opinion  on,  158; 
published  piecemeal  in  4  Fraser’s 
Magazine,’  281 ;  its  unfavourable  re¬ 
ception,  293,  314,  326,  330,  347; 
appreciated  in  America,  347 
Scaliger,  i.  302 
Schelling,  i.  302,  347 


Index. 


401 


Schiller,  character  ancl  writings  of,  i. 
105  ;  his  influence  on  Carlyle,  100  ; 
contrasted  with  Goethe,  100;  Car¬ 
lyle’s  Life  of,  begun,  141,  157 ; 
Carlyle’s  judgment  of  his  own  work, 
205  ;  Goethe’s  opinion  of  it,  206,  320 
Schlegel,  F.,  i.  158,205;  death  of,  ii. 
01 

Scotland,  social  state  of,  i.  51 ;  aris¬ 
tocracy  of,  ii.  60,  71 ;  character  of 
people  of,  60  ;  Scott’s  History  of,  70 
Scotsbrig,  the  Carlyles  remove  to,  i. 
269 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  his  works  charac¬ 
terised,  i.  304  ;  Goethe  sends  medals 
to,  352 ;  Carlyle’s  letter  to,  not  an¬ 
swered,  353 :  receives  medals  from 
Goethe,  ii.  23,  26;  his  ‘History  of 
Scotland,’  70  ;  his  journey  to  Naples, 
169  ;  his  failing  health,  109  ;  struck 
with  apoplexy,  241  ;  death  of,  251  ; 
characterised,  251 
Self-denial,  ii.  249 
Seneca,  ii.  249 
Shaftesbury,  i.  302 

Shakespeare,  and  Stratford-on-Avon, 
i.  191  ;  compared  with  Homer,  ii. 
78  ;  poetry  his  religion,  ii.  169 
Sharpe,  General,  i.  242  ;  his  differences 
with  Carlyle,  269,  270  note 
Sickingen,  Franz  von,  ii.  70 
‘Sigh,  The,’  Carlyle’s  poem,  ii.  340 
‘Signs  of  the  Times,’  in  ‘Edinburgh 
Review,’  ii.  48,  62,  67 
Silence,  ii.  73  ;  a  talent  for,  138 ;  the 
nobleness  of,  185 
Smail,  Betty,  ii.  119 
Smail,  Tom,  i,  18 

Socrates,  compared  with  Christ,  ii.  300 
‘  Sorrows  of  Werter,’  the,  ii.  72 
Southey  on  the  Saint-Simonians,  ii. 
162 

Sports,  popular,  on,  ii.  183 
Stael,  Mdme  de,  article  on,  ii.  81 
Stock  Exchange,  Carlyle  on,  ii.  367 

note 

Strachey,  Mr.,  accompanies  Carlyle  to 
Paris,  i.  198  ;  his  imperfect  French, 
199;  death  of,  ii.  199 
Strachey,  Mrs.,  i.  114,  177,  184;  con¬ 
trasted  with  Mrs.  Buller,  her  sister, 
189  ;  ii.  28,  137,  161  ;  her  anxiety 
respecting  Charles  Buller,  174,  175  ; 
Character  of,  350 
Stratford-on-Avon,  i.  350 
Streets,  on  names  of,  ii.  126 
Style,  Carlyle’s,  where  learnt,  ii.  201 
Swan,  Mr.  i.  39,  72,  79 ;  provost  of 
Kirkcaldy,  ii.  294  note 


TAIT,  the  bookseller,  i.  74 
Talma,  i.  199,  202 

Taylor,  William,  his  ‘  Historical  Sur¬ 
vey  of  German  Poetry,’  ii.  76,  122 
Taylor,  Mrs.,  a  friend  of  the  Carlyles, 
ii.  356  ;  characterised,  356,  362  ;  her 
dinner  party,  362 ;  her  husband, 
362,  376 

Taylor,  Sir  Henry,  ii.  176 
Templand,  i.  90 
Temple,  Sir  William,  i,  303 
‘  Terar  dum  prosim,’  the  motto,  i.  159, 
257 

‘  Teufelsdrockh,’  ii.  70 ;  the  first  sketch 
of  ‘Sartor  Resartus,’  refused  by 
magazine  editors,  80 
Thiers,  Carlyle’s  criticism  on,  ii.  263 

note 

Thought,  thinking  and,  ii,  185 
Tieck,  quoted,  i.  303 
‘  Times,  ’  and  ‘  Life  of  Schiller,  ’  i.  163 
Titles,  their  derivation,  ii.  77 
Toleration,  ii.  248  and  note 
Tongues,  gift  of,  ii.  173,  178  ;  Irving’s 
papers  on,  in  ‘  Fraser’s  Magazine,’ 
246 

Tories,  the  moderate,  ii.  73 
Tower  of  Repentance,  i.  242 
‘Tristram  Shandy,’ i.  324 
Truth,  rarity  of,  ii.  169 

UNITARIANS,  Carlyle’s  estimate 
of,  ii.  187 

University  Life  in  Scotland,  i.  18,  67 
Utilitarianism,  Charles  Buller’s  advo¬ 
cacy  of,  ii.  28 

ERSE,  quality  of  Carlyle’s,  ii.  298 

note 

Virtue,  no  theory  of,  301 
Voltaire,  his  philosophy,  i.  305;  essay 
on,  ii.  43 

WASHINGTON,  GEORGE,  his 
character,  ii.  300 
Water  of  Milk,  ii.  239,  242 
Waugh,  Dr.,  of  Annan,  a  friend  of 
Carlyle  and  Irving,  ii.  305  ;  his  des¬ 
titute  condition  relieved  by  Carlyle, 
306 ;  his  book,  306,  308 
Wellington,  Duke  of,  Parliament  and, 
ii.  227 ;  unpopularity  of,  as  a  politi¬ 
cian,  228,  238  ;  characterised,  228 
Welsh,  Jane  Baillie  (afterwards  wife 
of  T.  Carlyle),  i.  31 ;  her  ancestry, 
87  ;  John  Knox,  87  ;  her  grandfather, 
John  Welsh,  88;  her  father’s  early 
career,  89 ;  her  mother,  descended 
from  Wallace,  90, 91 ;  her  uncle,  John 


402 


Index. 


Welsh,  of  Liverpool,  92 ;  her  mother, 
described  by  Carlyle,  92 ;  death  of 
her  father,  92  ;  Carlyle  on  her 
father’s  character,  92 ;  attachment 
to  her  father,  92  ;  her  early  years, 
93  ;  personal  attractions,  94  ;  anec¬ 
dotes  of  her  childhood,  94,  95 ; 
learns  Latin,  95  ;  punishes  an  im¬ 
pertinent  lad,  96 ;  Edward  Irving 
becomes  her  private  tutor,  9.7 ;  her 
zeal  in  study,  97 ;  reads  Virgil, 
97 ;  its  effect  on  her  mind,  98 ; 
the  doll’s  funeral  pyre,  98;  writes 
a  tragedy  at  age  of  fourteen,  98 ; 
her  gift  of  verse-making,  98 ;  her 
love  for  her  father,  99 ;  accom¬ 
panies  her  father  on  his  last  jour¬ 
ney,  99 ;  her  father’s  last  illness, 
100  ;  her  first  extant  letter,  100  ; 
inherits  her  father’s  property,  102 ; 
her  many  suitors,  102 ;  called  the 
“■flower  of  Haddington,”  102;  her 
warm  attachment  to  Irving,  102 ; 
her  introduction  to  Carlyle,  103;' 
corresponds  with  him,  104  ;  Irving’s 
misgivings  as  to  her  German  stu¬ 
dies,  108;  literary  correspondence 
with  Carlyle,  121  ;  letters  from  Irv¬ 
ing,  1 23,  1 25  ;  professes  sisterly  love 
for  Carlyle,  146  ;  makes  a  will  leav¬ 
ing  her  property  to  him,  147  ;  quarrel 
and  reconciliation  with  him,  168 ; 
her  estimate  of  ‘Wilhelm  Meister,’ 
170 ;  on  death  of  Byron,  173 ;  cor¬ 
respondence  with  Carlyle,  211-215, 
220-227 ;  nature  of  her  regard  for 
Carlyle,  234  ;  letters  from  Mrs.  Mon¬ 
tagu,  247  ;  confesses  her  previous 
attachment  to  Irving,  250 ;  visits 
Carlyle  at  Hoddam,  252;  and  his 
father  at  Mainhill,  253  ;  her  mother’s 
displeasure  at  her  proposed  mar¬ 
riage,  257  ;  letter  to  Carlyle’s  mother, 
260 ;  at  Haddington,  261  ;  letter  to 
Jean  Carlyle,  263;  selects  a  house 
at  Comely  Bank,  271  ;  her  ‘  enume¬ 
ration  of  her  wooers,’  277  ;  her  esti¬ 
mate  of  Carlyle,  290,  292  ;  letter  to 
her  aunt,  291 ;  good  resolutions, 


293  ;  ‘  last  marrying  words,’  296 ;  her 
marriage  with  Carlyle,  297.  See 
Carlyle,  Jane  Welsh. 

Welsh,  Dr.,  of  Haddington,  Carlyle’s 
description  of,  i.  93 ;  his  death, 
92  ;  anecdote  of,  93 
Welsh,  John,  of  Liverpool,  ii.  132, 
134 

Welsh,  Walter,  of  Templand  (grand¬ 
father  of  Jane  Welsh),  Carlyle’s 
opinion  of  him,  i.  90  ;  his  laughter, 
91  ;  his  son  John’s  bankruptcy, 
subsequent  success,  and  repayment 
of  his  creditors,  at  Liverpool,  92 ; 
anecdote  of,  94 
Werner,  i.  302,  304 
Werter,  ii.  72 

‘  Westminster  Review, ’  ii.  76. 
Wetherell,  Recorder  of  Bristol,  ii.  140, 

179 

Whig  Ministry,  ii.  116 
Whigs,  the,  ii.  73,  116 
Wightman  the  hedger,  i.  287,  299 
‘Wilhelm  Meister,’  Carlyle’s  opinion 
of,  i.  107 ;  begins  translation  of, 
141,  144  ;  arrangements  with  pub¬ 
lisher  respecting,  148,  170  ;  Miss 
Welsh’s  opinion  of,  171  ;  Carlyle 
on,  171  ;  its  reception  at  Mainhill, 

180  ;  Mrs.  Strachey’s  opinion  of, 
207 ;  read  by  Mr.  Welsh,  of  Temp- 
land,  294  ;  ii.  136  note 

Wilson,  Professor,  i.  307 ;  Carlyle’s 
description  of,  324,  339  ;  his  testi¬ 
monial  to  Carlyle,  343 ;  his  cha¬ 
racter,  348 ;  Goethe  and,  ii.  199, 
266,  269,  273  ;  Carlyle’s  estimate  of, 
280 

Winckelmann,  ii.  299,  310 
Wollstonecraft,  Mary,  Life  of,  by 
Godwin,  ii.  167 
Women’s  rights,  ii.  344  note 
Wonder,  the  basis  of  worship,  ii. 
68 

Wordsworth,  characterised,  ii.  274 

EOMANRY,  Lothian,  called  out, 

i.  58 

York,  Duke  of,  i.  114 


(By  Arrasigemcnt  with  the  Author .) 


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could  match.  *  *  *  The  political  life  of  Caesar  is  explained  with  singular  lucidity, 

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society  under  the  rule  of  the  magnates  is  painted  with  startling  power  and  brilliance  of 
coloring. — Atlantic  Monthly. 

“Mr.  Froude’s  latest  work,  “Caesar,”  is  affluent  of  his  most  distinctive  traits. 
Nothing  that  he  has  written  is  more  brilliant,  more  incisive,  more  interesting.  *  *  * 

He  combines  into  a  compact  and  nervous  narrative  all  that  is  known  of  the  personal, 
social,  political,  and  military  life  of  Caesar  ;  and  with  his  sketch  of  Caesar,  includes  other 
brilliant  sketches  of  the  great  men,  his  friends  or  rivals,  who  contemporaneously  with 
him  formed  the  principal  figures  in  the  Roman  world.” — Harper's  Monthly. 

“This  book  is  a  most  fascinating  biography,  and  is  by  far  the  best  account  of  Julias 
Caesar  to  be  found  in  the  English  language.” — London  Standard. 

“  It  is  the  best  biography  of  the  greatest  of  the  Romans  we  have,  and  it  is  in  some 
respects  Mr.  Froude’s  best  piece  of  historical  writing.” — Hartford  Courant. 

Mr.  Froude  has  given  the  public  the  best  of  all  recent  books  on  the  life,  character 
and  career  of  Julius  Caesar.” — Phila.  Eve.  Bulletin. 


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A  series  of  Books  narrating  the  HISTORY  OF  GREECE  AND  ROME,  and  of  their 
relations  to  other  Countries  at  Successive  Epochs.  Edited  by  the  Rev.  G.  W. 
COX,  M.  A.,  Author  of  the  “  Aryan  Mythology,”  “  A  History  of 
Greece,”  etc.,  and  jointly  by  CHARLES  SANKEY, 

M.  A.,  late  Scholar  of  Queen’s  College,  Oxford. 


Volumes  already  issued  in  the  “  Epochs  of  Ancient  History.?’  Each  one  volume 

12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 


The  GREEKS  and  the  PERSIANS.  By  the  Rev.  G.  W.  Cox,  M.  A.,  late  Scholar  of 
Trinity  College,  Oxford  :  Joint  Editor  of  the  Series.  With  four  colored  Maps. 

The  EARLY  ROMAN  EMPIRE.  From  the  Assassination  of  Julius  Caesar  to  the 
Assassination  of  Domitian.  By  the  Rev.  W.  Wolfe  Capes,  M.A.,  Reader  of  An¬ 
cient  History  in  the  University  of  Oxford.  With  two  colored  maps. 

The  ATHENIAN  EMPIRE  from  the  FLIGHT  of  XERXES  to  the  FALL  of 

ATHENS.  By  the  Rev.  G.  W.  Cox,  M.  A.,  late  Scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford  : 
Joint  Editor  of  the  Series.  With  five  Maps% 

The  ROMAN  TRIUMVIRATES.  By  the  Very  Rev.  Charles  Merivale,  D.  D., 

Dean  of  Ely. 

• 

EARLY  ROME,  to  its  Capture  by  the  Gauls.  By  Wilhelm  Ihne,  Author  of  “History 
of  Rome.”  With  Map. 

THE  AGE  OF  THE  ANTONINES.  By  the  Rev.  W.  Wolfe  Capes,  M.  A.,  Reader 

of  Ancient  History  in  the  University  at  Oxford. 

The  GRACCHI,  MARIUS,  and  SULLA.  By  A.  H.  Beesly.  With  Maps. 

THE  RISE  OF  THE  MACEDONIAN  EMPIRE.  By  A.  M.  Curteis,  M.  A.  i 

vob,  i6mo,  with  maps  and  plans. 

TROY — Its  Legend,  History,  and  Literature,  with  a  sketch  of  the  Topography  of  the 
Troad.  By  S.  G.  W.  Benjamin,  i  vol.  i6mo.  With  a  map. 

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“These  volumes  contain  the  ripe  results  of  the  studies  of  men  whc 
era  authorities  in  theii  respective  fields.” — Thk  Nation. 

i^prljs  of  JUBobprn  jteforg. 

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Edited  by  EDWARD  E.  MORRIS,  M.A. 


rfce  ERa  of  the  PROTESTANT  REVOLUTION.  By  F.  Seebohm,  Author  at 
“The  Oxford  Reformers — Colet,  Erasmus,  More.” 

The  CRUSADES.  By  the  Rev.  G.  W.  Cox,  M.A.,  Author  of  the  “  History  of  Greece.* 

The  THIRTY  YEARS’  WAR,  1618 — 1648.  By  Samuel  Rawson  Gardiner. 

The  HOUSES  of  LANCASTER  and  YORK;  with  the  CONQUEST  and  LOSS 
of  FRANCE.  By  James  Gairdner,  of  the  Public  Record  Office. 

The  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  and  FIRST  EMPIRE;  an  Historical  Sketch. 
By  Wm.  O’Connor  Morris,  with  an  Appendix  by  Hon.  Andrew  D.  White,  Prest.  ol 
Cornell  University. 

The  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH.  By  the  Rev.  M.  Creighton,  M.A. 

The  PURITAN  REVOLUTION.  By  J.  Langton  Sanford. 

The  FALL  of  the  STUARTS  ;  and  WESTERN  EUROPE  from  1678  to  1607 

By  the  Rev.  Edward  Hale,  M.A.,  Assist.  Master  at  Eton. 

The  EARLY  FLANTAGENETS  and  their  relation  to  the  HISTORY  of  EUROP"1 
the  foundation  and  growth  of  CONSTIUTIONAL  GOVERNMENT.  By  the  R 
Wm.  Stuebs,  M.A.,  etc.,  Regius  Professor  of  Modem  History  in  the  University 
Oxford. 

The  BEGINNING  of  the  MIDDLE  AGES  ;  CHARLES  the  GREAT  ano 
ALFRED  ;  the  HISTORY  of  ENGLAND  in  its  connection  with  that  of  EUROPE 
in  the  NINTH  CENTURY.  By  the  Very  Rev  R.  W.  Church,  M.A.,  Deaa 
of  St.  Paul’s. 

The  AGE  of  ANNE.  By  Ei  ward  E.  Morris,  M.A.,  Editor  of  the  Series. 

The  NORMAN  KINGS  and  the  FEUDAL  SYSTEM.  By  the  Rev.  A.  H. 

iOHNSON,  M.A.  EDWARD  III.  By  the  Rev.  W.  Warburton,  M.A  ,  late  Het 
fajesty’s  Senior  Inspector  of  Schools. 

FREDERICK  the  GREAT  and  die  SEVEN  YEARS’  WAR  By  F.  W.  Longman, 

of  Bailie  College,  Oxford. 

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“Two  as  Interesting  and  valuable  books  of  travel  as  hav* 
been  published  in  this  country.”  Nrw  York  Express. 


Ur.  Field’s  Travels  Round  the  World. 


i. 

FROM  THE  LAKES  OF  KILLARNEY  TO  THE 

GOLDEN  HORN. 

II. 

FROM  EGYPT  TO  JAPAN. 

By  HENRY  M.  FIELD,  D.D.,  Editor  of  the  N.  Y.  Evangelist 
Each  1  vol.  12mo.  Cloth,  gilt  top,  uniform  in  sty'e,  $2. 

CRITICAL  -NOTICES. 

By  George  Ripley,  LL.D.,  in  the  New  York  Tribune. 

Few  recent  travellers  combine  so  many  qualities  that  are  adapted  to  command  the 
Interest  and  sympathy  of  the  public.  While  he  indulges,  to  its  fullest  extent,  the  charac¬ 
teristic  American  curiosity  with  regard  to  foreign  lands,  insisting  on  seeing  every  object 
Of  interest  with  his  own  eyes,  shrinking  from  no  peril  or  difficulty  in  pursuit  of  infor¬ 
mation — climbing  mountains,  descending  mines,  exploring  pyramids,  with  no  sense  ol 
satiety  or  weariness,  he  has  also  made  a  faithful  study  of  the  highest  authorities  on 
the  different  subjects  of  his  narrative,  thus  giving  solidity  and  depth  to  his  descriptions, 
without  sacrificing  their  facility  or  grace. 

From  the  New  York  Observer. 

The  present  volume  comprises  by  far  the  most  novel,  romantic,  and  interesting  part 
of  the  Journey  [Round  the  World],  and  the  story  of  it  is  told  and  the  scenes  are  painted 
by  the  hand  of  a  master  of  the  pen.  Dr.  Field  is  a  veteran  traveller ;  he  knows  well 
what  to  see,  and  (which  is  still  more  impoitant  to  the  reader)  he  knows  well  what  to 
describe  and  how  to  do  it. 

By  Chas.  Dudley  Warner,  in  the  Hartford  Courant. 

It  is  thoroughly  entertaining;  the  reader’s  interest  is  never  allowed  to  flag;  the 
author  carries  us  forward  from  land  to  land  with  uncommon  vivacity,  enlivens  the  way 
with  a  good  humor,  a  careful  observation,  and  treats  all  peoples  with  a  refreshing  liberality. 

From  Rev.  Dr.  R.  S.  Storrs. 

It  is  indeed  a  charming  book — full  of  fresh  information,  picturesque  description,  and 
thoughtful  studies  of  men,  countries,  and  civilizations. 

From  Prof.  Roswell  D.  Hitchcock,  D.D. 

In  this  second  volume,  Dr.  Field,  I  think,  has  surpassed  himself  in  the  first,  and 
this  is  saying  a  good  deal.  In  both  volumes  the  editorial  instinct  and  habit  are  conspic¬ 
uous.  Dr.  Prime  has  said  that  an  editor  should  have  six  senses,  the  sixth  being 
”  a  sense  of  the  interesting .”  Dr.  Field  has  this  to  perfection.  *  *  * 

From  the  New  York  Herald. 

It  would  be  impossible  by  extracts  to  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  the  variety, 
abundance,  or  picturesque  freshness  of  these  sketches  of  travel,  without  copying  a  gi  eat 
part  of  the  book. 

Rev.  Wm.  M.  Taylor,  D.D.,  in  the  Christian  at  Work. 

Dr.  Field  has  an  eye,  if  we  may  use  a  photographic  illustration,  with  a  great  deal  ol 
collodion  in  it,  so  that  he  sees  very  clearly.  He  knows  also  how  to  describe  just  those 
things  in  the  different  places  visited  by  him  which  an  intelligent  man  wants  to  know 
about. 


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A  DELIGHTFUL  BOOK. 


Charles  Kingsley.- 


HIS  LETTERS 

AND 

MEMORIES  OF  HIS  LIFE. 

EDITED  BY  HIS  WIFE. 

WITH  STEEL  PORTRAIT  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 
ABRIDGED  EDITION . 

Qdc  volume  8vo.  500  Pages.  Cloth,  ....... 

OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 


From  the  Chicago  Tribune. 

“  The  warm  admiration  of  the  author,  which  his  books  excite,  will  be  confirmed  by 
the  deeper  glimpses  into  his  heart  which  this  volume  of  4  Letters  and  Memorials  ’  allow.” 

From  the  N.  Y.  Tribune. 

“  It  will  be  read  with  far  greater  interest  than  the  lives  of  the  impossible  models  erf 
perfection,  that  fill  so  large  a  space  in  English  and  American  biography.” 

From  the  Chicago  Union. 

“To  men  and  women  of  pure  minds  and  right  aspirations,  it  would  be  hard  to 
suggest  a  more  entertaining  volume.” 

From  the  Boston  Advertiser. 

“  The  reader  is  made  to  feel  the  richness  and  strength  of  his  nature  from  his  early 
youth,  his  ardor,  his  intense  emotions,  his  unselfishness,  his  great  physical  vigor,  hia 
thorough  manliness,  his  broad,  splendid  usefulness.” 

From  the  Lotidon  Saturday  Review. 

“  The  book  discharges  very  completely  the  most  essential  functions  of  a  biography. 
It  enables  us  to  know  Mr.  Kingsley  thoroughly  well  ;  to  appreciate  his  strongest  motives  ; 
to  understand  what  he  thought  about  himself  and  his  performances ;  and  to  form  a 
tolerably  complete  estimate  of  his  work.” 

From  the  British  Quarterly  Revieiu. 

“Mrs.  Kingsley  has  edited  these  memorials  of  her  distinguished  husband  with 
good  taste  and  great  care.  .  .  .  The  book  is  worthy  of  the  subject,  intensely  inter¬ 

esting  alike  from  the  wide  circle  of  subjects  it  touches,  and  the  beautiful,  gifted,  humane, 
and  sympathetic  spirit  which  it  brings  so  near  to  us.” 

*»*  The  above  book  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent ,  post  or  express 
charges  paid ,  upon  receipt  of  the  price  by  the  publishers, 

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' "Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room. ”  —Marlowe. 


COMPLETION  OF  THE  FIRST 

BRIC-A-BRAC  SERIES. 

Personal  Reminiscences  of  famous  Poets  and  Novelists,  Wits  and 
Humorists,  Artists,  Actors,  Musicians,  and  tlie  like. 

EDITED  BY 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

Complete  in  ten  volumes ,  square  12mo.  Per  vol»  $ 1.50 . 


The  BRIC-A-BRAC  SERIES  has  achieved  for  itself  a  success  altogether 
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OVER  SIXTY  THOUSAND  VOLUMES 


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COMPLETE  REPOSITORY  OF  REMINISCENCES 


Of  prominent  men  and  women  of  this  and  the  last  century.  Characteristic 
anecdotes  of  every  individual  of  note  in  art,  literature,  the  drama,  politics,  or 
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a  good  story. 

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III.  Merim^h,  Lamartine,  and  Sand. 

IV.  Barham,  Harness,  and  Hodder. 

V.  The  Greville  Memoirs,  with  Portrait 
of  Greville. 

VI.  Moore  and  Jerdan,  with  4  Illustrations. 


VII.  Cornelia  Knight  and  Thomas 
Raikes,  with  4  Illustrations. 

VIII.  O’Keeffe,  Kelly,  and  Taylor,  with 
4  Illustrations. 

IX.  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and  Others,  with  4 
Illustrations  and  fac-simile  of  a  letter 
by  Lamb. 

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Than  stamps  in  gold ,  or  sums  in  sealed  bags 

-  Shakespeare. 


The  Sans  Souci  Series 

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Personal  Reminiscences  of  Famous  Poets  and  Novelists. 
Wits  and  Humorists,  Artists,  Actors,  Musicians, 

and  the  like. 

Edited  by  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

COMPLETE  IN  THREE  VOLUMES. 

Bach  scat  itmo,  Illustrated,  tastefully  bound  in  extra  cloth,  crimson  and  black. 

Per  volume,  $1.50. 


I. 

YATST  ANECDOTE  BIOGRAPHY 

—  of  — 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY, 


Compiled  by  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


With  Portraits  of  Byron  and  Shelley,  and  facsimile  of  a  Poem  by  the  latter 

From  the  NEW  YORK  EVENING  POST. 

“  Mr.  Stoddard  has  given  us  a  new  and  in  some  respects  a  unique  biography 
tf  the  poet  ...  an  essentially  fresh  ‘ Anecdote  Biography  '  of  surpassing 
interest.'* 


II. 

Hay  don’s  Life,  Letters,  and 
Table-Talk. 

With  Portraits  of  Wordsworth,  Keats, 
Haydon,  and  Wilkie,  and  facsimile 
of  a  letter  by  Haydon. 

"Since  the  appearance  of  the  ‘  Greville 
Memoirs'  there  has  been  no  collection  of 
reminiscences  which  compares  with  this  in 
Point  and  interest'' — N.  Y.  Daily  Times. 


III. 

Men  and  Manners  One  Hundrea 
Years  Ago. 

Edited  by  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER. 
With  Four  Illustrations. 

This  volume  comprises  extremely  inter¬ 
esting  reminiscences  of  persons  dist.n- 
guishe  i  in  this  country  during  the  Revolu¬ 
tionary  period. 


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The 

Letters  of  CbarlesDickens, 

Edited  by  his  Sister-in-Law  and  his  Eldest  Daughter. 

With  several  Fac-simile  Letters. 


Three  Volumes,  12mo,  cloth,  each,  -  $1.50. 


Parts  of  this  correspondence  record  Dickens’s  experiences  from  day  to 
day  with  the  minuteness  of  a  diary,  introducing  the  most  capital  anecdotes 
and  inimitable  description^,  and  the  letters  have  naturally  aroused  an 
interest  which  hardly  anything  else  could  have  awakened,  unless  it  had 
been  a  posthumous  work  of  the  great  novelist.  Indeed,  the  correspondence 
is  actually  what  the  editors  say  in  their  preface  that  they  have  tried  to 
make  it — “another  book  from  Charles  Dickens’s  own  hands — a  portrait  of 
himself  by  himself.”  Altogether,  the  letters  give  such  a  revelation  of 
the  man  as  nothing  else  could  give  so  well,  and  as  might  make  a  substitute 
for  any  biography. _ 


CRITICAL  NOTICES. 

“  Their  literary  merit  is  great  and  genuine  ;  they  are  freshly  and  spontaneously 
written  in  English  that  is  clear  and  strong  and  unaffected  in  a  high  degree.  The  picture 
they  give  of  their  author  is  striking  and  singularly  pleasant.'-  They  bring  home  to  the 
reader  the  full  force  of  his  personality,  in  all  its  richness  and  expansiveness,  its  indom¬ 
itable  energy  and  splendid  self-consciousness,  its  elasticity  and  resolution,  the  irresistible 
authority  of  its  union  of  vigor  and  charm  ;  and  they  heighten  the  reader’s  opinion  of  him 
as  a  private  man  and  as  a  man  of  genius.” — London  Athenceum. 

“  No  formal  portrait  could  be  half  so  vivid.  In  this  book,  which  was  never  intended 
to  be  a  book,  we  come  nearer  to  the  man  as  he  was,  than  any  biographer  could  have 
brought  us.  .  .  .  The  letters  do  not  show  11s  Dickens  at  work,  but  Dickens  at  play, 

relieved  from  the  strain  of  facing  the  public,  and  tossing  off  the  impressions  of  the 
moment  for  the  sympathetic  appreciation  of  his  own  inner  circle.  The  editors  say  that 
no  man  ever  expressed  himself  more  in  his  letters  than  Charles  Dickens.  No  man 
certainly  ever  expressed  a  livelier  or  more  considerate  friendship,  a  purer  affection,  or  a 
more  exhilarating  sense  of  the  ridiculous.” — Fortnightly  Review . 

“Some  of  the  new  letters  published  within  the  last  week  from  the  pen  of  Charles 
Dickens  are  amongst  the  most  amusing  compositions  in  the  English  language.  .  .  . 

They  flash  Dickens  on  you  with  as  much  vigor  as  if  they  gave  you  a  glimpse  of  him  in  a 
magic-lantern.” — London  Spectator. 

“  That  bright  sparkling  style,  that  tenderness  of  heart  and  fund  of  cheery  humoij 
fhat  odd,  keen,  humorous  way  of  observing  and  noting  things,  that  appreciation  of  and 
affection  for  hosts  of  friends,  which  we  already  knew  to  be  among  his  most  lovable  traits, 
are  to  be  yet  once  more  tasted  and  enjoyed  in  these  pages.” — Literary  World. 

“  The  attractiveness  of  these  volumes  lies  in  their  free  and  natural  exhibition  of 
Mr.  Dickens’s  mind  and  heart.  His  personality  saturates  them.” — Congregationalist. 

“  Of  three  things  noticeable  in  this  correspondence,  one  is  the  prevailing  cheerful¬ 
ness  of  high  spirits.  ,  .  .  The  other  two  noticeable  things  are  the  great  excellence 

flexibility  and  simpleness  of  style  from  the  very  first,  and  the  surprising  quantity  of  highly 
entertaining  epistolary  writing  produced  by  this  one  man.”— Boston  Courier. 


■%*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid ,  upon  receipt  of  price , 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS, 

Nos.  743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


A  NEW  EDITION , 


Books  and  Reading. 

BY 

NOAH  PORTER,  LL.D.,  President  of  Yale  College. 

With  an  appendix  giving  valuable  directions  for  courses  of 
reading^  prepared  by  James  M.  Hubbard,  late 
of  the  Boston  Public  Library . 

1  vol.,  crown  8vo.,  -  $2.00. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  American  better  qualified 
than  President  Porter  to  give  advice  upon  the  important 
question  of  “  What  to  Read  and  How  to  Read.”  His 
acquaintance  with  the  whole  range  of  English  literature  is 
most  thorough  and  exact,  and  his  judgments  are  eminently 
candid  and  mature.  A  safer  guide,  in  short,  in  all  literary 
matters,  it  would  be  impossible  to  find. 


“The  great  value  of  the  book  lies  not  in  prescribing  courses  of  reading,  but  in  a 
discussion  of  principles,  which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  all  valuable  systematic  reading.” 

—  The  Christian  Standard. 

Young  people  who  wish  to  know  what  to  read  and  how  to  read  it,  or  how  to  pursue 
a  particular  course  of  reading,  cannot  do  better  than  begin  with  this  book,  which  is  a 
practical  guide  to  the  whole  domain  of  literature,  and  is  full  of  wise  suggestions  for  the 
improvement  of  the  mind.” — Philadelphia  Bullet  hi. 

“President  Porter  himself  treats  of  all  the  leading  departments  of  literature  of  course 
with  abundant  knowledge,  and  with  what  is  of  equal  importance  to  him,  with  a  very 
definite  and  serious  purpose  to  be  of  service  to  inexperienced  readers.  There  is  no  better 
or  more  interesting  book  of  its  kind  now  within  their  reach.” — Boston  Advertiser. 

“  President  Noah  Porter’s  ‘  Books  and  Reading’  is  far  the  most  practical  and  satis¬ 
factory  treatise  on  the  subject  that  has  been  published.  It  not  only  answers  the  qnestions 
‘  What  books  shall  I  read?’  and  ‘How  shall  I  read  them?’  but  it  supplies  a  large  and 
well-arranged  catalogue  under  appropriate  heads,  sufficient  for  a  large  family  or  a  small 
public  library.” — Boston  Zio?i' s  Herald. 


***  For  sale  by  all  booksellers ,  or  sent ,  post-paid ’  upon  receipt  oj 
price ,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS,  Publishers, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York, 


AUTHORIZED  AMERICAN  EDITIONS. 


^Fonftr’s  jEjfisforiral  ©arts. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND, 

From  the  Fall  of  Woolsey  to  the  Death  of  Elizabeth. 


THE  COMPLETE  WOItK  IN  TWELVE  VOLUMES. 


By  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE,  M.  A. 


Mr.  Froude  is  a  pictorial  historian,  and  his  skill  in  description  and  full¬ 
ness  of  knowledge  make  his  work  abound  in  scenes  and  passages  that  are 
almost  new  to  the  general  reader.  We  close  his  pages  with  unfeigned  re¬ 
gret,  and  we  bid  him  good  speed  on  his  noble  mission  of  exploring  the 
sources  of  English  history  in  one  of  its  most  remarkable  periods.  — ■  Brit¬ 
ish  Quarterly  Review. 

THE  NEW  LIBRARY  EDITION. 

Extra  cloth,  gilt  top,  and  uniform  in  general  style  with  the  re-issue  of 
Mommsen’s  Rome  and  Curtius’s  Greece.  Complete  in  12  vols.  i2mo, 
in  a  box.  Sold  only  in  sets.  Price  per  set,  $ 18.00 . 

Note.  The  old  Library,  Chelsea,  and  Popular  Editions  will  be  discontinued.  A  few 
sets  and  single  volumes  can  still  be  supplied.  • 


SHORT  STUDIES  ON  GREAT  SUBJECTS. 

THE  NEW  LIBRARY  EDITION.  Three  vols.  i2mo. 
Uniform  in  General  Style  with  the  New  Library  Edi¬ 
tion  of  the  History  of  England.  Per  vol. . $1.50 


THE  ENGLISH  IN  IRELAND 

During  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Three  vols.  i2mo.  New  Library  Edition.  Per  vol . $1.50 

*k*  The  above  books  for  sale  by  all  booksellers ,  or  will  be  sent ,  post  or  ex¬ 
press  charges  paid,  tipon  receipt  of  the  price  by  the  Publishers, 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


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